


A Summer in Pelion

by Habur



Category: The Iliad - Homer, The Song of Achilles - Madeline Miller
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:13:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 35,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24460360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Habur/pseuds/Habur
Summary: In the wake of the Great War, Patroclus' village is occupied by the Achaian Imperial Army. Patroclus is forced to house an enemy soldier and struggles with his own feelings against an army responsible for the cruel treatment of his people.Several generations later, a young journalist seeks to piece together the events of the past to uncover the truth of what happened during the most unstable time of the war.
Relationships: Achilles/Patroclus (Song of Achilles)
Comments: 65
Kudos: 177





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a warm summer day, a little too warm. They sit out on the old man’s front porch. Antilochus fans himself with his notebook and looks across at Mr. Pelides, the man he’s been interviewing for a story in the Trojan Times. Mr Pelides is wearing the exact same thing he wore yesterday. Blue cotton shirt and khakis, his white hair and beard neatly groomed. Antilochus wonders when that will start to go too. 

“Alright, Mr. Pelides,” Antilochus says, fumbling in his jacket pocket for a pen. He wants to take his jacket off, it’s stuffy and the sweltering heat is getting to him. He can feel the sweat pinning his hair to his forehead and it bothers him. Mr. Pelides looks as unfazed as usual, a relaxed smile on his lined face. He doesn’t look as old as he actually is, but Antilochus thinks that has to do more with his attitude than his actual looks.

Antilochus wonders if he can keep up, this time. His notes are jumbled, he doesn’t know how he could even begin to compile them into comprehensible pieces for a story. 

“Easy there, boy,” Mr. Pelides replies, looking amused as he leans back in his chair.  
“No need to be nervous. I’m just an old coot, rambling on about the past.”

Antilochus finds his pen and sighs. “I understand your diagnosis has … made it more difficult to stay on a particular topic.” He tries to keep his tone gentle but unemotional. No point in upsetting the man.

Mr. Pelides doesn’t stop smiling. “Yes, yes. I forget things. That’s what dementia does.”  
He points to his head. “Makes you lose a little of yourself, every day. It’s why I’m sitting here with you, isn’t it? I want someone to keep my memories alive, even after I’ve forgotten everything.” 

Antilochus can’t help a small frown. “I will try to keep you on track, Mr. Pelides. If I stop you, just keep in mind I’m trying to follow the story, alright?” 

Mr. Pelides nods. “I’m sure you’re very good at your job. You know, I always wanted to be a journalist. You’re lucky you work for the Trojan Times! The best damn paper in the world. That was my dream job, once.”  
He sighs happily, gaze turning distant. 

Antilochus nods. “Well, why don’t you go ahead and start? Yesterday we left off at-”

“What are you writing about again?” Mr. Pelides interrupts. 

Antilochus pauses for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. “It’s a human interest story about the lives of refugees after the Great War? You were telling me about-”

“Yes, I was a refugee. Did you know that? I could tell you all about it, back when the Trojan government hadn’t granted us citizenship. Life was hard, but we took comfort in the little things. Food was hard to come by, and we didn’t have simple things like electricity or even water sometimes, even though we always paid the bills. Never missed one.”

“You’ve mentioned that,” Antilochus adds, softly.  
“You also mentioned the Achaian occupation of Pelion. The bombing of Locris? The day the first Pelinese troops surrendered to the Imperial Army, and the invasion of villages in the Pelinese countryside.”

Mr. Pelides contemplates this for a moment. Then, he motions for Antilochus to start taking notes.  
“You would think it all happened in a swarm of chaos and destruction. But it wasn’t like that. There was no gunfire, no warning at all. The soldiers simply marched into the village. It was all quite eerie, when you think of it now.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Pelion, 1941**

There had been bombs dropped on the next town over, the day before. Patroclus had brought Briseis and Meriones away from the window, finding bits of cotton for them to stuff their ears with. Even so, they couldn’t keep their eyes away from the tower of black smoke reaching up to the sky. They couldn’t see anything else beyond that - but the sight, it branded their minds in all its horror. 

There wasn’t enough food for the night. Patroclus debated asking a neighbor for some flour, but decided against it. They weren’t starving just yet, and he really couldn’t bear to burden someone else. It was his responsibility to provide for his siblings. They ate in tense silence, trying not to jump every time an explosion went off. They wouldn’t be able to sleep that night, and it didn’t matter, because they were disturbed by frantic knocks on their door before it was even dawn. 

It was Thoas, who lived in the house next door. He was even poorer than they were, and had a lame leg, making it even more difficult to find work. The older man was looking panicked, a sweat having formed on his brow.  
“Have you heard?” he gasped, the wild look in his eyes making Patroclus step back for a second. 

“Heard what? Do you know what time it is?” Patroclus grumbled. 

“Our men have surrendered.” 

The chill that went down Patroclus’ spine was ice-cold.

Patroclus stopped Briseis and Meriones from running out of the house to look. There was nothing to see, not yet. 

“They’re here. The Imperial Army. Word says they have the village surrounded. They’re going to take us too.”

Patroclus struggled to mask the fear he knew would be apparent to his sister and brother. “Thoas,” he said. “Go back to your house.”

“But Patroclus! They’ll come and kill us! We must run!” 

“Run? Where exactly are we going to run, Thoas? Out of the village, right into their hands?”

Thoas had nothing to say to that. 

“There is nothing we can do,” Patroclus replied, nearly quaking at the truth of his own words. “Go back to your house and wait there.”  
It was all they could do. Wait. 

Patroclus felt a flash of sympathy as Thoas gave in and limped back to his own house. The other man’s brother had left not too long ago to fight with the Pelinese army. If he was stationed in Locris, which had been destroyed the previous day, it was likely he wouldn’t return.

Patroclus sent Briseis and Meriones to dig up sweet potatoes for breakfast. It wasn’t long before they heard the crow of the rooster. Better to stay busy. He saw Briseis start to tear up, but made her wipe her eyes on her apron.  
“Go wash your face,” he ordered, and gave Meriones a stern look when the boy started to object on their sister’s behalf.  
“Are you done with the potatoes? Go.” Meriones bent his head and went back outside to pluck the leaves. Briseis returned, eyes still red, but she cried no more as they prepared breakfast. Patroclus sent Meriones with a plate to Thoas’ house. 

After they completed their morning prayers, he left for his job selling produce in the market. It was a hot day, the sun scorching his skin, but he had his hat and a towel to wipe away the sweat. He struggled to pull his cart into the market square. He had lost weight recently, and his hands were worn from hard labor. Despite Thoas’ news, the market was as busy as it usually was. People stopped by to stock up on food. They were in the middle of a war, and most people didn’t have a lot of money. But life still went on. People had to eat. Patroclus was in the midst of a quarrel with a customer about the prices of his vegetables when the soldiers arrived. 

He’d paused to realize that the market had gone quiet. Hushed whispers here and there, but most people stood still as the sounds of marching approached. It was surreal, the way those lines of green uniforms appeared in the square. He hardly saw their faces, just the symbols they bore, the mark of the Imperial Army. His hand clenched over the handle of his cart. Someone screamed, but was immediately shushed by a relative. 

Patroclus could feel his heart pounding in his chest as the lines of imperial soldiers stood before them, as silent as statues. He was grateful, so grateful that Briseis and Meriones were at home. Their school had been closed recently, and they had no choice but to help Patroclus at the market. He had trusted a gut feeling not to bring them today. 

One of the soldiers stepped forward and motioned for an imperial flag to be brought out. Patroclus could sense the fear and hatred rising in the people around him, could almost taste it. He cringed at the red and golden colors of the Achaian Empire, the crest of their famed army. Colors of murder and the shades of suffering. 

“You are defeated!” cried the soldier, in Achaian. His voice rang loud and harsh in the square.  
“You will surrender to the Empire! Those who do not surrender will be put to death.” 

The words washed over Patroclus. He’d known this would happen, but it was still hard to believe. The soldiers hung their flag from the square’s main building, taking down the Pelinese banners and ripping them. Some of the villagers started to weep and cry out at the sight, but when one of the soldiers stepped forward and struck a villager so hard she fell unconscious, the noises stopped. They watched their home being claimed by these murderers.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was twilight by the time Patroclus returned to the house. The villagers had been rounded up and forced to register their names and addresses with the army. It was a new enforcement that officers would be welcome to stay in the homes of locals, as there were no army barracks in the village. Each registered villager was required to contribute a portion of their food to the army until resources from mainland Achaia arrived. Patroclus felt defeated as he trudged home. However were they going to feed these enemy soldiers? 

It had all been rather civil, the way everyone had lined up to register themselves. The officers in charge had been stoic, yet polite. He wondered when the ugliness would begin. The Imperial Army was notorious for its brutality. He’d heard stories, everyone had. The humiliation of local men when their children were taken away to service the army. Homes being pillaged. Savage executions. It had been a great fear, ever since the army had shown up on the shores of Pelion. They’d lived in dread for the better part of a year, and now it was happening. 

He came home to a dark house. Briseis and Meriones crouched in their sitting room. They’d heard the soldiers marching and had been too afraid to turn on the lights. They ran up to Patroclus as soon as he entered the doorway, and he held them both close to him. 

“Meriones, bring out the lamps,” Patroclus said, after a moment. He knew they were watching him, looking to him for any comfort or guidance he could give. Some sign that they would be alright. He didn’t know if it was right to give it to them. He wished more than anything that their parents were still alive, but was also thankful they weren’t here to see this, didn’t have to suffer through it. 

Briseis was still clinging to him, and he took her face in his hands. “Speak to me, little sister,” he said, trying to sound calm, although the storm in him raged. 

“I’m scared,” she whispered, and he gripped her shoulders hard. He would have done anything for that look not to be there, in her wide eyes. 

“I’m scared too,” he said. He beckoned Meriones over, and they all stood there, looking at each other.  
“We don’t know what will happen to us. We must keep to ourselves, and not do anything to attract attention from the soldiers. You understand?” The way they stared at him. So much depended on his strength. 

Briseis and Meriones nodded. He studied each of them. They were too young to die. Barely more than children. Meriones was only twelve. The year before he had cried because his toy dog was broken, the one their father had made him. And Briseis. If the war had not started, she would have finished with her studies at the village school by now. She was good at reading and writing, far better than Patroclus ever was. She could go to finishing school, in Pelion City. He shook his head. There was no point thinking of what ifs now. Their survival depended on their ability to adapt to Achaian supremacy. And even then … this was war. There was no telling what would happen. 

They couldn’t eat that night, but they huddled together in front of the electric lamp in Patroclus’ room, Briseis reading the well-worn pages of their mother’s old storybooks. Patroclus liked them. They were stories about the world, about nature. They told the origins of their people’s traditions. They weren’t fairy tales. He didn’t think it a good idea, to fill their heads with fantasies, when their own reality was so harsh and demanded to be lived.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next morning, there was a knock on their door. Patroclus made a sign for Briseis and Meriones to be quiet, to stay in their room. He got up from his seat where he had been chopping onions, wiping his hands on a tea cloth. 

There was a tall fair-haired officer outside the door, standing straight as a board. 

“Good day,” the officer greeted, inclining his head a little. Aloof green eyes stared at him, then moved to scan the surroundings. His mouth gave a little twitch of derision. Patroclus felt irritated. Their house wasn’t much, but he kept it clean and well-maintained. His father had built it. He was proud of their home. 

“I am First Lieutenant Achilles Chironides. I have been assigned to your house.”

There was a pause, as Patroclus gave no answer. He would not address this Achaian scum. Especially not in that language. He blocked the doorway with his body, ignoring the sight of Thoas in the corner of his eye, peering out a window in curiosity.  
The First Lieutenant continued his gaze at Patroclus, unbreaking. 

“I trust you have prepared a place for me? I only require a room to sleep in. I will not inconvenience you.”

Patroclus wanted to slam the door shut in his face, but held it wider and stepped back. He kept his eyes on the officer at all times, whose gaze started to turn scornful at such open dislike from a simple villager. 

He had to give up his room, for the officer to have a place to sleep. It was the largest room in the house, and still, it wasn’t very big. There was a mattress on the floor and a rug for morning prayers. The officer took one look at the little shrine in the corner and glanced at Patroclus.  
“This cannot be here,” he stated. 

Patroclus said nothing, merely waited for what the officer would do next. After a moment’s pause, the officer strode up to the shrine and collected it from the floor. It wasn’t much, simply an altar with the names of Patroclus’ parents carved in stone, with incense to burn out of respect for them. Patroclus felt his lips clamp shut. The officer had just arrived and there was already this humiliation, having his parents’ memory in enemy hands. The officer looked down at the items in his hands as though at a loss for what to do with them. 

Wordlessly, he handed them to Patroclus. “See to it that I do not see this lying around,” he spoke instead, but his voice held no venom. 

Confused, Patroclus accepted the objects. He couldn’t fathom why the officer had not ordered him to destroy the shrine. Achaian religion saw other traditions as blatant heathenism. There were stories of soldiers burning temples, of priests being executed publicly to send a message. He went into Briseis’ and Meriones’ room next door and quickly reset the items before the officer could change his mind.


	2. Chapter 2

The next few days passed by in relative calm. Patroclus made Briseis and Meriones keep their heads down and avoid the officer, but First Lieutenant Chironides seemed intent on taking no notice of them. He left everyday at dawn, and returned once in the afternoon to take his lunch. Then he would be gone again, until late in the night. He was a quiet guest, and extremely neat. He didn’t touch any of their things, and only approached them to ask for bare necessities. Patroclus started to feel his initial hatred subside. He prepared their meals and left a portion for the officer every day, as he was supposed to do. It hurt their food supplies, but they could not afford to complain. First Lieutenant Chironides always thanked him, albeit stoically, for the food.

“Is there nothing else to eat?” the officer asked one night, glancing at the vegetable soup and beans Patroclus had made for dinner. 

Patroclus still hadn’t come around to speaking with the officer. He placed the tray next to the bed and turned around to leave. 

“I asked you a question,” Chironides said, speaking louder. 

Patroclus glanced at him over his shoulder. “No, there is not, First Lieutenant. We only have what we can grow. Market prices are rising every day, as you are well aware of,” he replied, in Pelinese. He knew it was wrong to risk it. People had been killed for less than speaking their own language. 

Chironides simply looked at him and said nothing more.  
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next day, he went into the kitchen and saw several small packages wrapped in paper on the table. He went up to them, unable to believe his eyes. _Meat. Eggs. Fish_. He didn’t think anyone on this side of the village had eaten any of that for a year. 

“You will cook proper food for me now,” Chironides said from behind, making Patroclus start. 

“Of course, you and your family are welcome to your own portions. But I am a soldier, and we are not living on rations now, you see?” 

Patroclus saw. He looked up at Chironides.  
“I - where did you get the food? It must have cost a fortune.” 

“That is my business.” Chironides walked closer to Patroclus, until he was looming over him. The sharp cut of his jawline made his face even sterner. He still hadn’t said a word about Patroclus’ lack of attempt to speak Achaian. There were already signs posted, in the market square. The prohibition of Pelinese music, literature and television. The enforcement of Achaian currency. Patroclus went to the market every day with his eyes averted from the propaganda posters. Gods forbid they keep anything of their heritage. 

“I will … use what you’ve provided, First Lieutenant,” Patroclus said, using the Achaian word for the title this time. Somehow, he thought he was treading a fine line. Chironides had let it go the first few times, but as an Achaian soldier, he could not allow a villager to disobey the new government. 

Sometimes Patroclus wondered why Chironides had been posted at his house. If the officer was a man of wealth … well, even if he wasn’t highly ranked, he would be given a nicer house to sleep in. Somewhere on the rich side of town. Perhaps it was an insult, to remind him of his inferiority. Perhaps that was why Chironides had seemed so distasteful of the house when he’d first arrived.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was necessary to keep away from the streets as much as possible. Patroclus still had to work, but there were always soldiers wherever he turned. Some marched around the city, some simply hung around in the streets. He was beginning to see evidence of their reputation. Already, some of the villagers had been killed for not showing deference to an imperial officer. The leaders of the troops did not seem to discourage ill treatment of the locals, but the opposite.

Thoas came up to him in the market one day, pretending to look at aubergines. The other man had avoided coming to the house lately, in fear of running into Chironides. 

“You don’t have an officer living in your house?” Patroclus asked. 

Thoas shook his head. He lived alone. Maybe that was why no officer had been assigned there. Thoas really wasn’t capable of providing for himself, let alone an uninvited guest.  
“I see you do,” he whispered, eyeing Patroclus. “Be careful. You stay away from him, as much as you can.”

Patroclus gave Thoas an impatient look. “You don’t think I know that?”

“You know what they do to locals. Especially the young pretty ones.”

Patroclus sighed. “It’s out of my control. I can only keep to myself and hope no soldiers take notice.”

It was harder said than done. Patroclus watched from his cart in the market as people were harassed, especially young men and women. Sometimes the soldiers eyed Patroclus in the market too, and he prayed every moment they would not approach. Sometimes they called to him, but he kept his head down. He was wary not to show any blatant disrespect, but it was often a matter of luck. A villager could be at the wrong place, at the wrong time, in an encounter with a particularly cruel officer. There were public executions. They didn’t happen as commonly as Patroclus had thought, but when they did, he was there to see them. He made himself watch. It reminded him every day who these men were, no matter how civil First Lieutenant Chironides appeared. 

He was starting to guess why the soldiers were stationed here, in a little village south of Locris that had nothing to offer. Except, maybe it did. Perhaps it was all about the location. Over Mt. Pelion was Pelion City, and it made sense that the Achaians meant to take it. It was the last free city of Pelion, and there had been two previous attempts to take it. Two failed attempts. Patroclus shuddered to think what would happen if the Achaians succeeded.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The roundups started happening in the second week. The soldiers went to each household and had its inhabitants stand in a line before them. They would first take the food contributions the household had prepared. If there wasn’t enough, there would be punishments. Patroclus closed his eyes when he heard of what happened to the villagers who couldn’t contribute enough food. He’d scraped together all he could from the farm. It belonged to an incredibly miserly farmer who made Patroclus pay a monthly fee from whatever profits he made. 

Collecting wasn’t all the soldiers did. They selected the girls and boys they liked best and took them away. There was now a camp in the center of the village for the infantry. It made the homes of villagers less crowded, but it also meant their children could be taken from them and sent to the camp to service the soldiers. 

One of the days Chironides was gone, the troops arrived at Patroclus’ doorstep.

“Open the door!” came the command. 

Patroclus opened it, trying to still his shaking hands the whole way. He forced himself to face the leader. The Achaian was not any soldier, Patroclus could see. He was decked out in badges and medals, clearly of a much higher rank than the soldiers Patroclus had seen at the market. A hulking form of a man, with dark hair and a well-trimmed beard.

“Out! Line up!” another shouted command. The man’s voice rang straight through Patroclus’ ears like a trumpet call. 

Patroclus looked back at Briseis and Meriones, who huddled behind him, fearful. They were going to be exposed to the soldiers. Everything he had tried to avoid, unavoidable.  
“Come,” he whispered. “Keep your heads down.”  
They filed out of the house and stood in a line in front of it. The commander jerked his head and another soldier went into the house to collect the supplies Patroclus had left on the table. He came out and they inspected it. Patroclus looked at the food, food enough to feed his family for a whole week. The gnawing in his gut would not give way. 

The commander studied each of them, black eyes roving and sending a shiver over Patroclus’ skin. His gaze landed on Briseis. He pointed at her, and Patroclus felt a strike of terror as two soldiers stepped forward to pull her away. 

“Patroclus!” she cried, looking at him in horror. 

“No,” he whispered. “Wait, no! Don’t take her!” 

One of the soldiers backhanded him across the face, continuing to drag Briseis away. She started to scream. Meriones was screaming too, his hands covering his eyes. Ignoring the soldiers, Patroclus grabbed Briseis’ arm, holding on to her as tight as he could. He wouldn’t let her go. He couldn’t. 

“What’s this?” came a growl, and the commander was in front of them. “Handle it,” he ordered his men, with irritation, and more soldiers came towards them. They grabbed Patroclus and threw him to the ground, holding him there. The commander towered over him.  
“Insolence,” he spat.

And then they were beating him, kicking him, and he thought his ribs would cave in. The pain was white-hot. He saw them grab Briseis’ hair to drag her away again. He hadn’t realized he was screaming, begging, crying, until his throat started to hurt. Someone had pushed Meriones onto the ground, and his brother lay curled up, covering his ears to block everything out. 

The movements stopped at the sound of another man’s voice.  
“Agamemnon, what do you think you’re doing?” 

The commander whirled round, looking furious at this sudden interruption.  
“This is none of your business,” he seethed. 

“Put the girl back where you found her,” the other man simply replied. His voice was calm and unbothered.

Patroclus held in his pain for a moment, craned his neck to look. This officer was a little shorter than the commander, but dressed similarly. He had reddish hair and was altogether less intimidating than the former. 

“I told you to mind your own business,” Agamemnon replied. 

The other officer glanced at him, unimpressed. Then he motioned for the soldiers to release Briseis.  
“She’s a child,” he said, pushing on her back lightly so she stumbled back to the house. He turned to look at Patroclus on the ground.  
“What is she, fifteen? Sixteen?”

“She’s fourteen,” Patroclus breathed out, unable to speak very loudly. 

The officer nodded. “We agreed we would leave the children alone, brother,” he added, so low Patroclus didn’t think it was meant for his ears.  
Agamemnon shook his head in disgust and stormed off. 

The officer looked at Patroclus again.  
“Lieutenant,” he suddenly called. A younger soldier stepped forward and saluted him.  
“Yes, sir?”  
“Get this man back into his house. There was really no need for this … disruption.”  
“Right away, sir.” A few soldiers helped Patroclus off his feet, and he limped back to the house and sat at the kitchen table. A few moments later, the officer entered. 

“Pardon my intrusion. I only wanted to offer my sincere apologies for what happened.”  
The man stood over him, and Patroclus didn’t know what to say. He looked around, and saw that Briseis had brought Meriones back in as well. They ran into their room and closed the door. 

“It … your men -” Patroclus shook his head. What could he say, to this soldier? Thank him? For not committing the same atrocity that his men had done to other families? There was no justice in this. He could only be relieved that Briseis hadn’t been taken away after all.

“I can see you’re shaken up. Commander Agamemnon can get rather … difficult, about these things.”

Patroclus clamped his mouth shut.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Commander Menelaus Atreides of the Fifth Regiment. Yourself?” 

Patroclus hesitated. “Patroclus Menoetiades.” 

Menelaus continued to talk, not seeming to care that Patroclus didn’t intend to speak further. 

“I know you are afraid of us. Not without reason. But, I want you to understand that I would not allow harm to come to a child.” He paused, gauging Patroclus’ reaction.  
“War is ugly. There is little we can do to prevent the clashing of hate and ignorance. We are in your village for the greater good that we believe in. We fought, just as your own men fought.”

“Because you attacked them,” Patroclus blurted out. He kept his head bent in deference, but his eyes moved up to meet Menelaus’.  
“Your army came to our shores. Our soldiers only fought to defend their people.”

Menelaus made a noise of sympathy.  
“That’s what you think,” he said. “What about the ones who were sent abroad, to join the Trojans in their invasion of Achaian soil? What do you think they did, when they came across unprotected civilians like yourself? Achaian civilians. Their enemies. Turned around and walked away?”

Patroclus frowned. 

“In war, all men are equal.” Menelaus continued.  
“It doesn’t matter where you come from, whether you are rich or poor. When there is blood, and confusion, and nothing else to lose, that is when the animal comes out.”  
Menelaus was quiet for a moment, letting his words resonate.

Patroclus stared back at him. 

After a while, the commander reached into the front of his uniform and pulled out a square of paper. It was a small photograph, a portrait of a young girl. He handed it to Patroclus.  
“Your sister,” he jerked his chin at the closed door of Briseis’ and Meriones’ room.  
“She reminded me of her.”

Patroclus studied the photograph, a sweet face not much older than Briseis.  
“Your daughter?” he asked. 

“She is waiting for me, back home in Achaia. There are fathers and brothers amongst us too.”

“Why are you showing me this? I am your enemy,” Patroclus replied, keeping his tone matter-of-fact. 

“We are enemies,” Menelaus agreed. “But I hope you remember, even when you face your enemy. We are people, too.”

As Commander Menelaus Atreides turned to leave, Patroclus was left staring after him, conflict brewing in his gut. It wasn’t enough to just hate these people. He could resent Menelaus and what he represented, but the man had made a gesture of trust. He’d shown Patroclus a picture of his own daughter. The things he’d said … Patroclus didn’t know what to think anymore. Who was right and who was wrong? Why did men commit evil deeds, when they were really more alike than they thought, enemies or no?  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
**Present Day**

“Why would he do that? A military commander, having a conversation with a civilian in an occupied village? That couldn’t have been all too common.”  
Antilochus taps his pen against his notebook, wondering if he should leave it till the next day. Mr. Pelides has been talking for a while. He gets confused at times, veering off topic, and Antilochus has to remind him a few times on what they’re talking about. 

“Menelaus Atreides was a different sort of man,” Mr. Pelides replies.  
He stands up, suddenly. “Want some iced tea, boy? I’ll make us some, nice and cold.”

Antilochus can’t help feeling desperate for a cold drink. He’d given up and shrugged off his jacket somewhere in the middle of Mr. Pelides’ story. 

“We could use a break,” he admits. “Can I help you with anything?”

“Yes, come in for a moment, won’t you?”

Antilochus gets up and follows Mr. Pelides in. He hasn’t been in the house since the first day he’d showed up to interview the old man. It was once a beautiful home, he can tell. Mr. Pelides keeps it clean and tidy, but his memory is failing and it shows. He’s forgotten to draw back the curtains, so the house is bathed in darkness. 

“Should I draw back the curtains, Mr. Pelides? Let some light in.” 

Mr. Pelides nods and motions for Antilochus to do so. 

Sunlight starts to filter in through the windows, and Antilochus can now see more of the house. It’s a cozy, comfortable-looking place, and he gravitates immediately to the pictures on the mantel above the fireplace. Mr. Pelides as a younger man, with his family. Antilochus looks at the photographs of Mr. Pelides and his wife, his children. He feels a pang as he thinks how alone Mr. Pelides is without them, how alone he’ll be once his condition gets worse and he’ll be admitted to a long-term care facility. 

They go into the kitchen and Mr. Pelides forgets why he’s in there. Antilochus gets up to make the tea, he knows how to do it - his mother uses the same brand. 

“Anyway,” Mr. Pelides continues.  
“This Menelaus Atreides wasn’t like any other man in the army. Of course, he was a career man, as these high-ranking officers tended to be. Nobody knew if the plan to occupy Pelion City was his idea, or his brother’s. The Imperial Army tended to be cut off from the chain of command at the time, which gave men like the Atreides brothers plenty of free reign. There was always the risk that they would be executed for disobeying orders once the war ended, but for the most part, the Achaian Empire rewarded soldiers for victory over their enemies.”

“What made them think they could succeed? After the Imperial Army failed to take Pelion City … what was it, twice?” 

“They had resources, this time, from the village. And Menelaus Atreides knew very well what it would mean to have the cooperation of the villagers. That was why he intervened when he could. He was only one man, he couldn’t have stopped every atrocity that happened. But he could control some parts of it, and he did.”


	3. Chapter 3

The building of the army barracks led to more work opportunities for the villagers. Patroclus left his job at the market to work at a kitchen, where he prepared and delivered food to the laborers at the construction site. It paid slightly more than selling goods no one would buy, but it left him exhausted. He still bore his injuries from the beating he had received at the hands of the soldiers. He made the walk back to his house and collapsed on the bed next to Briseis and Meriones every night, too tired to eat his dinner. 

Commander Agamemnon oversaw the building of the barracks, which meant Patroclus saw him nearly every day. He tried to avoid the man, but found himself being watched. It was bad luck indeed, having drawn the attention of a powerful military officer. If the commander held a grudge, there was nothing that could protect Patroclus and his family.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His shoulder burned as he pushed the cart of food to the laborers' tent, where they took their meals. Since the beating, he had not been able to stand up straight. He felt more lame than Thoas, the way he had to drag his feet when he walked, because the pain in his hips became too much when he lifted his legs. He’d felt all over his body, but there wasn’t a way he could tell that something was broken. He could not afford a doctor, so he just had to keep going. 

It was more or less the same routine every day. He spent hours working in the cramped, hot kitchen, chopping and peeling, then boiling and frying. The food was poor quality, grains and vegetables about to go bad that the army didn’t want. He would pile all the food into a cart and push it to the site of the army barracks under construction. He knew he shouldn’t complain. It was hard work, but nothing compared to what the laborers did. He was lucky to have gotten this job at all. 

The laborers gave him sullen looks as they received their food. This was their only form of pay, and it wasn’t even enough to keep them full for very long. Patroclus met their eyes as he passed around the meals - if they wanted to blame him for their ill treatment, they could. It wouldn’t change a thing. 

The only gaze he avoided was Commander Agamemnon’s, who watched him silently as he reloaded the cart with the empty bowls and plates, then started to push it all the way back to the kitchen. He had hours of scrubbing to look forward to now. The owner of the kitchen was an army collaborator too stingy to hire more cooks. Patroclus and another cook named Eumelus were the only ones there.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The moon was high by the time Patroclus made it home. There was a crick in his back he could not get rid off, and it slowly grew more painful the more he walked. It was warm, even during nighttime, but he’d developed a cold sweat and had to squeeze his arms around himself to keep from shivering. He felt empty, like he hadn’t eaten in days, although he knew he’d had something for breakfast. He couldn’t remember what it was. He got so dizzy nowadays that he couldn’t remember much at all. 

He saw Briseis jump up from the floor when he opened the door. The space was empty.  
“Briseis?” he peered around, and Briseis came up to him to take his arm.  
“Where is everything?” He squinted at the place where the kitchen table used to be. 

“Patroclus, don’t be angry with me. I sold the table and the chairs.”

“You did _what_?” He felt heat rush to his face in his anger. 

“I’m so sorry, Patroclus! Please! We need the money.”

“Those were our - our father made that table! Briseis, how could you?” 

She still held his arm. The grip of her hand was the only thing that kept his head from hitting the floor. He saw a blur as Briseis’ voice turned panicked. It was like a dream, those swirls of color, like he’d simply gone to sleep.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He woke up and looked around him in confusion. He was back in his own room. Wasn’t it -? Never mind. He shook his head, wincing at the pain of a sharp headache starting in his forehead and going all the way back. He smelled food, and his stomach rumbled in hunger and nausea at the same time. 

He wasn’t alone. The officer - First Lieutenant Chironides was standing next to the bed. There was a tray of something hot, which the officer had laid down.  
He jolted up from the bed, clutching his head, but Chironides only gave him a passing glance. 

“Stay there,” the officer said, and walked out of the room. 

A moment later, Briseis came in, the expression on her face both apologetic and anxious.  
“Oh Patroclus, are you feeling alright? You just collapsed, I didn’t know -”

“Why did you sell the table, Briseis?” Patroclus interrupted, the memory coming to him clearly now. 

She sighed. “I’m sorry. I really am. But I thought we could get a doctor.”

“A doctor?” Patroclus was taken aback. “For _me_? Don’t be ridiculous, Briseis. You can’t waste that sort of money on me.”

“Why not?” she retorted, angrily. “Do you think I want to-” she paused, voice cracking. “To see you work yourself to death?”

“I am not-”

“We couldn’t find a doctor,” she continued. “They fled, once Locris was attacked. There isn’t a doctor in the village to treat you.” 

Patroclus fell silent. 

“So I asked the officer if there was an army doctor who could come see you.”

_What?_

“Say no more, Briseis,” Patroclus replied, teeth gritted.

“But he was willing to listen-”

“I _said_. Do not speak of this again.”

“It could help you!” Briseis exclaimed.

Patroclus was so livid he could hardly sit still.  
“You talked to him? You talked to the Achaian?” he hissed. 

For a second, Briseis looked sheepish. Then it was replaced with indignance again.  
“What’s worse, brother? Speaking to the enemy, or watching my family suffer? You would get killed by the soldiers, or die anyway because you’re hurt. It’s all the same, isn’t it?”

There was a long silence as Patroclus let her words sink in.  
“What did he say?” he asked, finally. 

“He listened to me. He refused at first, but I kept asking him. He says he will consider it.” 

“And what price do you think he will ask for?” Patroclus watched as Briseis paled.  
“Do you think an Achaian is going to help us for free? Have I taught you nothing, little sister?”  
He knew he was being hard on her. Briseis, always meaning well. But this was so much more than the threat of death. He thought of Agamemnon and his men, grabbing her, dragging her by her hair. Thought of the stories he had heard of what the soldiers did to young girls, and Briseis, sharing the same fate. 

“I don’t think … I don’t think this officer is like that, Patroclus. Please, will you talk to him?”

“If you want me to beg for a doctor, I’m not doing that.”

“Just talk to him! I’m begging you.” Briseis now held his hands in hers, and her face … he had refused her many things, but this … he was tired, and weak. He could refuse no more. 

“I’ll talk to him. But … don’t be disappointed, sister. He is an imperial soldier, and they are animals. It will be a wonder if he doesn’t get us killed.”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chironides came into the room when Patroclus was done eating. He felt guilty, eating food that his siblings could have had. He eyed the officer, wondering why Chironides was letting him rest in here. Where had the officer been sleeping, when Patroclus occupied his bed? Chironides stood over Patroclus and crossed his arms. 

“I can’t promise anything,” he said, in Pelinese. 

Patroclus recovered from his shock just enough to find a reply.  
“I’m not asking for anything,” Patroclus bit back. He closed his eyes to even his temper. People in the village had been brutally attacked for showing disrespect to the soldiers, and he didn’t think he could handle another beating. 

Chironides showed no sign of moving. “You are clearly in need of medical attention. You should have brought this up earlier.”

When Patroclus didn’t answer, the officer sighed and took a seat next to the bed. “Everything you do is for your family.”

“My family is all I have.”

“Yes. Do you think it helps them if you come home one day, go to bed, and simply don’t wake up?”

“You seem to think I have a choice. Perhaps I should let my family starve to death.”

“Or you could die first, and they will have to find some other means to survive. There really isn’t much work for children. I suppose they could be bedwarmers for the men, there’s always an opening there.” 

Patroclus stared at Chironides, willing his anger to subside. Despite his blunt words, the officer held no trace of hostility. He looked very much like how Patroclus often felt. Weary, the world having beaten him down, only to throw him nothing but dust when he rose up again. He was not unkind. For some reason, Patroclus didn’t fear him, saw no reason to; even when faced with his neatly pressed green uniform, the Achaian crest gleaming on the sleeve.

“You can’t just ask a doctor to come here. It will attract attention,” Patroclus replied, unable to argue any longer.

“I am not very highly ranked in the army. But I know someone,” Chironides replied. “I can try. But for me to do that, you have to agree to be treated.”

There was a halt in the conversation as Patroclus contemplated this. 

“Why would you help me?” he whispered. “How can you be …?”

“I’m an Achaian devil,” Chironides replied. “A murderer, a tormenter of your people. Aren’t I?” 

Patroclus looked at him and for once, saw none of those things.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had been a few days, and there was no sign of a doctor’s arrival. Patroclus knew Briseis waited anxiously, but he didn’t think it would happen. He couldn’t even blame Chironides. The man must have tried, and failed. Or the risk was too high, and he couldn’t hazard getting caught by his superiors trying to enlist the help of one of their own. 

Too much time had passed and Patroclus knew he would lose his job if he continued failing to show up. He had spent a few days resting, and already, he felt better. The aches and pains came and went, but he thought he was well enough to go to work. When Briseis saw him getting ready to leave, she turned her face away.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The day was a particularly harsh one. His employer screamed at him and threatened to let him go. He ended up having to beg to keep his position, and was forced to work overnight. More laborers had been recruited to finish the construction of the barracks even faster, which meant more mouths to feed. He chopped and peeled potatoes until his hands were raw, boiled them until he could no longer feel the difference between hot and cold air, the way the steam was constantly in his face. He and Eumelus, the other cook, made a pact to slap each other awake if one of them dozed off during the work hours. 

Some of the food had already gone stale by the time Patroclus loaded all of it onto his cart. Meals had been reduced from three times a day to two, and he knew the laborers would voice their unhappiness. He shut out the world around him as he wheeled the cart to the construction site, willing himself to be deaf to the calls of the soldiers, blind to the looks of aggression thrown his way. 

“What is this shit?” one of the laborers complained, fingering the bowl of stale food so painstakingly prepared. 

“Your lunch,” Patroclus replied, ignoring the man as he passed on more bowls. 

“This is what we break our backs for all day?” 

Patroclus couldn’t help silently agreeing. The pain in his arms and back said otherwise, but he knew the food really was disgusting. Nearly rotten potatoes boiled and chopped, mixed with onions and whatever condiments he and Eumelus had been able to find in the kitchen. They weren’t allowed any salt, and the water they’d used to cook had been dirty. He almost felt ashamed, looking at the product of his work. The men had a right to be angry. 

“It’s not me you should be asking,” Patroclus said, and turned away when the man spat into his bowl. 

He started to reload the cart again once the men were done eating. Many were hungry enough that they’d eaten all of the food, despite their complaints. There was a tremor in his hands as he piled up the bowls. A shadow fell over him, but he didn’t turn around. 

“What are you doing here?” 

Chironides. 

“What does it look like?” Patroclus managed.

“I told you I’d get you a doctor. What’s the use of doing that, when you’re back out here killing yourself?” 

“I haven’t seen any doctor.”

“Just -” there was frustration in the officer’s voice now, and Patroclus turned to look at him. 

“You think it’s easy? I’m asking someone to go behind the commanding officer’s back. It takes some convincing!” 

“Don’t, then.”

“Why are you so-” Chironides paused, taking a breath. “You should go home and rest.”

“First Lieutenant,” Patroclus said, drawing up to his full height, even though it barely reached the other man’s chin.

“This is how it is. I’m going to lose my job if I stay home any longer.”

There was a silence as Chironides considered his words. 

“I know,” he replied. “Believe me, I understand. But I’m so close. Don’t wear yourself down just yet, Patroclus Menoetiades.” 

Patroclus nearly dropped a few bowls at the mention of his name. He hadn’t ever introduced himself to the officer, and hadn’t stopped to think that the man knew his name. 

“I’ll try, Achilles Chironides,” he replied, unable to think of anything else.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Doctor Asclepiades arrived the next evening. He didn’t look like the other Achaians, who were usually tall and fair. He was younger than Patroclus thought a doctor would be, skinny and bespectacled, with a serious face.

“Let’s see the damage,” he said, his tone soft like he didn’t want anyone else to overhear. Briseis and Meriones hovered in the doorway, but Patroclus waved them away. He tried not to flinch as the doctor poked and prodded at him, his deft fingers pressing on Patroclus’ ribs, inspecting the bruises that took their time fading away. 

“You were severely beaten a few weeks ago?”

“It wasn’t so bad that I couldn’t walk,” Patroclus replied, feeling uneasy. 

The doctor just eyed him, unconvinced.  
“It would have healed by now, but your continuation of physical activity has only made it worse. I’m afraid there is nothing I can do, if there is no way for you to rest and recover.”

“I’m not going to die from these injuries?”

“Nothing tells me it is life threatening. I’m mainly concerned with how much you have been eating and sleeping. The body cannot heal without these things.”

“Those just happen to be things that are hard to come by, doctor. I don’t have to tell you that.”

“No, you don’t.” The doctor removed his spectacles and gave Patroclus a long look. 

“Soup, in the evenings. If you can manage it. To settle your stomach. Some good bone broth. I will write down the recipe for you. Even a little nourishment makes all the difference.” 

Patroclus nodded. He watched as the doctor took out a pen and piece of paper, slowly jotting down the words in his scratchy handwriting. 

“Why did you come?” he asked, barely a whisper. 

“Why ask?”

“You could be punished for this, correct?”

The doctor put down his pen and gave a long sigh.

“You think I am the same as all the men who took your village? Killed and tortured your people? I am a doctor. I treat the ill and the wounded. It is only because of this war that I somehow have to choose sides.”

“You’re not Achaian,” Patroclus observed, after studying the man some more.

“I am an Achaian citizen. But my parents were from Messenia.”

Messenia. Another country under Achaian rule, but for much longer, even before the war had started. 

“You Pelinese can hate us all you want, but when the Achaians have razed your country to the ground, your children will not be any different. They will speak Achaian, dress as Achaians, and fight for the Empire to rule the world.”

“I would die first than see it happen,” Patroclus replied. 

The doctor gave a cynical smile. “My parents said the same.”  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He sat alone, in deep reflection, when Chironides knocked and entered the room. 

“I take it you want your room back?” Patroclus asked, not looking at the officer. 

Chironides shrugged and took a seat. “I’m sorry he wasn’t more helpful. But it was better than nothing, I suppose.”

Patroclus turned towards him, a burning in him threatening to burst out like a flame.  
“How can you do this? Fight for the Imperial Army?” 

At Chironides’ look of startled anger, he schooled his tone. 

“How do you live this way? Seeing your fellow soldiers lay waste to people’s homes, burning villages to the ground? You’ve seen far more than I have.”

Chironides was at a loss for words for a moment. Then he replied.  
“What would you do?”

Patroclus frowned. 

Chironides looked around him. “My grandparents were Pelinese, you know. On my father’s side. During the famine, they came to Achaia looking for work. A better life. The Empire was just beginning to form, then. There was already so much hostility towards immigrants. They changed their name, just to avoid being targeted by the nationalists. It was originally Pelides.”

Patroclus found himself conflicted. “Then …”

“How do you think it feels, coming here to the land my grandparents once called home? Seeing Locris destroyed? But I was raised Achaian, and taught to be nothing else. It was how we survived. Do you think I am not filled with sorrow, to see a part of my heritage shattered this way?” 

Chironides paused, looking to the far corner of the room. “The shrine you had there … my grandparents had one like it. When they died, my mother had it dismantled and burned. She was a full-blood Achaian. I knew that kind of hate even before I was drafted into the army.” 

They sat in silence, and Patroclus voiced what he had been thinking for the past few minutes.

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know what I would do if I’d been born Achaian.” 

Chironides looked at him, and his eyes were both understanding and sad. “I don’t know what I would do if I’d been born Pelinese,” he replied.


	4. Chapter 4

He knows he’s late. His mother called him this morning and they spent yet another fruitless hour arguing over medical expenses. She can’t afford to pay all of them, but she won’t let him chip in. That’s how it goes, over and over again. He’d been so frustrated he left his apartment and forgot his car keys, then realized he’d locked himself out. It is that kind of morning for Antilochus. 

He knocks on the door, because Mr. Pelides still hasn’t remembered to fix the doorbell. He hasn’t bothered to wear a jacket today, and is already sweating from the humidity of the afternoon. 

“It’s a good thing you’re here, boy!” Mr. Pelides greets as he opens the door.

“Terribly sorry, Mr. Pelides. I know I’m very late. I did call.”

“I must have missed it. But all’s well, I was just trying to make this cake.”

“A cake? Oh, what’s the occasion?”

Mr. Pelides gives a little smile, and Antilochus wonders how that smile looked when Mr. Pelides was young. He surely broke many hearts. 

“I do this every year. It’s a sort of … tradition. I marked it on my calendar so I wouldn’t forget.” Mr. Pelides leads Antilochus to the kitchen, which is a mess. Bags of flour and sugar, half filled bowls all over the place. It looks like a bakery has been robbed. 

“Um … I’m guessing you need some help, Mr. Pelides?”

“Can’t find it,” Mr. Pelides says, looking lost and confused. He scratches his head, and suddenly all his easy charm is gone. 

“What is it? Did you lose something?”

“The recipe!” Mr. Pelides cries, his expression more helpless than Antilochus has ever seen it.   
“I can’t remember what I put in it. And I can’t remember what I _didn’t_ put in it, either.”

Antilochus feels his chest clench in sympathy. “It’s alright. We’ll just start over again.” He picks up an empty bowl. “Do you know what to put in first?”

Mr. Pelides is silent as he looks around the kitchen, then picks up a bag of flour. Antilochus sees a piece of paper sticking to the bottom of the bag and grabs it. The paper is browned and stained; this is a well-used, well-loved recipe indeed. He can only make out bits and pieces of what it says, even though he did take Pelinese for a few years in high school. He thinks a lot of it is misspelled, making it even harder to read. 

“Is this what you were looking for?” He holds out the recipe. 

Mr. Pelides gives a triumphant grin. “I’m so glad you’re here to help me with the baking, boy! What did you say your name was?”

Antilochus’ heart sinks a little. He thinks they can delay the interview, just for today. 

“Alright. This recipe calls for-”  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Pelion**

“One more,” Patroclus instructed, eyeing Briseis as she added another cup of flour. They were making the cake larger than usual, because Meriones was turning thirteen. Not a child anymore, Patroclus couldn’t help but think. Then again, neither of them were. These past few months had forced Briseis and Meriones to grow up faster than they should have. He shook the thought away and kept an eye on Briseis. The last time there’d been a special occasion, he’d asked her to make the cake herself, and she’d put in all the wrong ingredients and burned it. 

It really wasn’t hard to make, and most importantly, it was cheap. Sugar was dreadfully expensive these days, but they didn’t need much. This was Meriones’ favorite food in the whole world, and Patroclus remembered when he was young enough to get excited about a treat like this. 

“I haven’t gotten him anything,” Briseis admitted. She stirred the mixture with her hands and got up to light the charcoal. 

“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” Patroclus replied.

The door opened and in walked the officer. Achilles, Patroclus thought of him reluctantly. They’d struck a sort of uneasy acquaintanceship ever since the officer had brought in a doctor for Patroclus. He couldn’t think of him as Chironides anymore, not after what the officer had said of his history. 

Achilles glanced their way, hesitated, then strode over. “Anything I can help with?” he asked. 

Patroclus looked up at him, at the stiff and formal way he stood. Yet, in that serious face was an openness that had not been there before. Achilles gave a tentative smile, and Patroclus looked at the ground, then back up again to return it. 

“No, we’re just making Meriones’ cake. It’s his birthday.” 

“Well, just call on me if you need anything.” Achilles gave a brisk nod and walked to his room. 

Briseis turned to Patroclus. “He’s nice,” she said. 

Patroclus raised an eyebrow. “I hardly think _nice_ is an appropriate word to describe an imperial soldier.”

Briseis shrugged. “He helped you, and he’s always polite to us. I just can’t … imagine him with the others, marching, yelling …”

“Killing and raping?” Patroclus offered. 

Briseis flushed. “I mean, he probably has killed people before. It’s his … job.”

Patroclus sighed. A month ago he might have told Briseis off for saying anything that placed an imperial soldier in a positive light. Now he just … didn’t know anymore.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

They sat on the dinner mat together - they used a mat now that they didn’t have a table - and Meriones blew out his candles. 

“There’s so much cake!” the boy exclaimed, pure, unadulterated joy on his face. It was an expression that shouldn’t have been so rare. 

“Go ahead,” said Patroclus, unable to keep the grin off his face.   
“Cut yourself a big piece.” 

He glanced from the corner of his eye at the officer, who was seated awkwardly on the edge of the mat. When it was time for Meriones to open his gifts, Achilles sheepishly slid a small wooden object onto the mat. Patroclus did a double take. It was Meriones’ toy dog. Patroclus still remembered the day their father had made it, presenting it to Patroclus when he must have been four or five. He’d given it to Meriones later on. 

His eyes met the officer’s, who shrugged. “Found it on the floor. Few small fixes here and there. He’s probably too old for it now, anyway.” 

Meriones didn’t say anything to that, but Patroclus saw the way he carefully picked up the toy dog and held it in the crook of his arm.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus had been able to come home early today, and he winced as his lower back ached from pushing the cart. He stopped outside the bedroom and bent a little, stretching the muscle out. 

“Still bothering you, isn’t it?” Achilles came in through the back door, holding a bundle of wood. 

“It’s just once in a while now,” Patroclus lied. 

“There are stretches we do, for soldiers who get injured. I can show you a few. Perhaps it will help.” 

Patroclus shrugged, and Achilles put the wood down and came over. They practiced together for a few minutes, until Patroclus had the stretches memorized. They did feel good, working on the muscles and helping them relax. 

“Did you want to do something like this? Before the war?” Patroclus asked.

“What, teaching people how to stretch?” 

“Whatever they call it. Reconstruction aid?”

“Something like that. No, I don’t think so. It’s just something we all had to learn, if we had an injury that took a long time to heal. It helps, doesn’t it?” 

“It feels better,” Patroclus admitted. 

“Did you always sell goods at the market?” 

“Pretty much,” Patroclus replied. “My mother did it, and after she died, the farmer let me pick up her job.”

“How old were you then?” 

“Thirteen.” 

“The same age as Meriones,” Achilles observed. 

“Yes. He likes to use it as an excuse that he should leave school, because I did. I suppose it doesn’t matter now.” 

“I never liked school myself,” Achilles smiled, and there was a flash of amused understanding in his eyes that Patroclus hadn’t seen before. 

“Oh? Well I heard they’re very strict there. In Achaia. Beat you for getting an answer wrong and all that.”

“I’ve been known to receive a few canings myself,” Achilles confirmed, but he didn’t look upset about it.   
“What they used to do, was make you pull down your trousers so they could cane you over the ass. Hard to sit down afterwards.”

Patroclus snorted. “We never got that. I had a few on my hands. The teacher used a stick, the thinner it was, the more painful.”   
He held his hands apart. “About this long. It made a red stripe.” 

“I can’t imagine why they thought it would make us _want_ to learn.” 

“Grownups,” Patroclus replied, in the exasperated-annoyed way he’d done as a boy, a kind of universal answer to the actions children simply didn’t understand. It made Achilles laugh in agreement, and Patroclus found himself smiling.

“So you stuck it through, then? Went on to university?” he asked.

Achilles shook his head. “I started my first semester, and then I was drafted. I don’t know what I would have studied otherwise. Was never very good at anything.”

“There had to be something you wanted to do.”

Achilles hesitated. “I thought perhaps … I could write. Write what exactly, I don’t know. But there’s no use thinking of it now.”

“You still could. When the war ends.” 

They didn’t look at each other. 

“I was never good at reading or writing myself,” Patroclus continued. “Briseis is the one. The brains of the family.”

There was a pause as they thought about what they’d shared. Hopes and dreams, a different life from ages ago. The war had taken everything, was taking everything, and still they could muster some sort of hope, to talk like this.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was a few weeks later when Patroclus was sure he’d destroyed whatever rapport that had been developing between him and Achilles. It had been another long day, and the constant watching from Commander Agamemnon had only gotten worse. Agamemnon never said anything, but the way his black gaze refused to leave Patroclus whenever he was at the barracks - it made the hairs rise on Patroclus’ flesh. He was almost certain the commander was waiting for the time to strike. He just didn’t know when, or how. Would he be attacked? Was the commander going to try and take Briseis again? It made him feel sick to his stomach at the thought. He would give anything to protect her, his life, but even that might not be enough. Men like this were not to be contended with. 

The worst thing was, there was no one who could help him. Certainly not Achilles, who received orders from the commander. Patroclus was completely helpless, and he could only wait and hope he had the strength to face anything the commander planned to do in retaliation for his lost pride. 

He was contemplating this when Achilles stepped out of his room, a small pile of books in one hand.   
It didn’t even occur to him what they were until the officer asked, grimly, “What’s this?”

Patroclus rose from his seat on the floor when he realized what Achilles was holding.   
“I - They’re …” 

He cursed his own stupidity. He should have moved them when Achilles wasn’t home. When the officer had arrived, he’d hidden his mother’s books under a floorboard in the bedroom. He hadn’t had time to find another hiding spot. They were contraband, Pelinese literature the Achaians did not want locals reading. Even a page was enough to evoke harsh punishment. Patroclus had seen a villager blinded for hoarding Pelinese books in his house. 

Achilles had the same look on his face as the day he’d seen Patroclus’ parents’ shrine. 

“I know they’re forbidden,” Patroclus managed. “I was going to get rid of them.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Achilles replied, calm and collected.   
He turned them over in his hands.   
“Books like these … passed down for generations. You don’t just throw them away, do you?” 

Patroclus had no answer. He waited nervously. 

“I would have thought you’d find a better hiding place for them. There’s nothing the Empire hates more than the product of Pelinese minds.” 

“Are you going to turn me in?”

Achilles stared at Patroclus for a long moment, mouth curled in a slight frown. Patroclus realized what that look was. Achilles was disappointed. 

“What are they about?” the officer asked softly, peering down at the worn out covers. 

“ … Stories from local writers, mostly. Collections.”

“Hmm. And you said you couldn’t read very well.” 

“I can’t. Well, I could, but it takes me a very long time. Briseis reads them to me.” 

He realized Achilles was holding the books very gently, as though afraid they would fall apart at any moment. 

“You’re not going to turn me in,” he acknowledged. 

Achilles ran a hand over the covers. “Wait here,” he said. 

He went back into his room and returned with another small stack of books, just as worn as Patroclus’. “These are Achaian,” he said.  
“But I bet they’re the same kind. The traveling writers, who went from village to village recording old stories.”

“Yes, exactly that,” Patroclus agreed.

Achilles took a seat on the floor and motioned for Patroclus to join him. “I’ve been translating them,” he muttered, holding out a notebook filled with Pelinese handwriting and scribbles. Patroclus could only stare. 

“I thought … if the war ever ended, your people could have something of Achaia that wasn’t -” he grimaced, gesturing to their surroundings. “All this.”  
He paused and let the pages flip over by themselves.   
“I suppose it’s a pointless effort. I don’t even have a typewriter.” 

“I would like to know them,” Patroclus offered, although he had no idea what made him say it. 

Achilles turned to him, blank stare turning thoughtful. “You really want to hear about the lives of Achaian people? Your enemies?” 

Patroclus picked up one of his mother’s books and placed it back in Achilles’ hand. “If you want to hear about the lives of Pelinese people. Your enemies.”

Achilles smiled a little, and Patroclus made himself look away. The other man had a nice smile, his features softening. Sitting here together, he could almost forget who the man was. _What_ the man was. But he shouldn’t forget. They were not here under some pretense of what the world was like. They knew what it was like, and in spite of that, there was some understanding.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Evenings passed like this. Patroclus couldn’t read his people’s stories to Achilles, but he could tell them. He remembered every single word, the exact way his mother had told them to him. Achilles never leafed through the books himself, a gesture of respect that Patroclus hadn’t expected, but was grateful for, nonetheless. And then it was Achilles’ turn. His Pelinese wasn’t quite perfect, but the translations from Achaian made for some comical errors, and sometimes they stayed up all night laughing about it. 

“It’s an idiom, in Achaian,” Achilles would explain. “I didn’t know how to do it in Pelinese, so it sounds silly.”

“When did you learn Pelinese?” Patroclus asked, curious all of a sudden. He knew enough Achaian to get by without being murdered in the streets by the soldiers, but was certainly not fluent. 

“When I was a boy. I had a job outside of school, at a small music shop. It was owned by a Pelinese gentleman. He only hired me because he found out my grandparents had been from Pelion. Hated Achaians, that one.”

“And what did you do? At the shop?”

“I sold records. He was going to let me run the shop when I was older. But then … there was the bomb, when the Trojans attacked, and the shop was destroyed.”

Patroclus was silent for a while. “Did you ever sell any radios?”

“I did,” Achilles smiled. “The small portable ones, those were the most popular at the time. Everyone had one. They still do.”

“My mother had one,” Patroclus added. “She would play it every night. We waited till they played the big orchestras, and then she would take my hands and we danced around. Briseis was just a baby then.”

Achilles leaned forward. “And I suppose you haven’t heard it in a while?”

“I haven’t heard a big band play in a long time, no. Even before the army came here.”

“What made you stop?”

“I suppose I didn’t feel like it,” Patroclus replied, after thinking about it for a while. “It reminded me too much of her.”

“My mother once took me to see one of those orchestras,” Achilles said, expression distant as he thought of the memory.   
“It was in Troy, at a big theater downtown. Must have been … the best thing I’d ever seen. Best time I’d ever had.” 

“I’ve always wanted to go,” Patroclus added. “They’re not all too popular in Pelion anymore, but I hear Troy is famous for them.” 

“Everything’s better in Troy, so they say,” Achilles shrugged.   
\----------------------------------------------------

When Patroclus returned from work the next morning, he caught sight of something left on the windowsill. A small radio. He felt the grin on his face then, the sharp tugs on his heartstrings; it was nearly the same as the one his mother had. He turned it on, switched to the right channel. And there it was. The sound of the trumpets, a soft melody on saxophone, until the rest of the band came to life. Somehow he imagined a young boy working in a music shop, listening to the same tune.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Present Day**

“Have you heard this one?” Mr. Pelides turns a knob on his little portable radio. “One of my favorites. I saw it live once, you know.”

There is a sharp crackle from the radio. Antilochus thinks it will fall apart at any moment, the thing must date back to the war. He starts to laugh, seeing Mr. Pelides fumble with it. 

“Maybe you shouldn’t … I mean, to preserve it!” 

“You know why we loved these kinds of songs? It made us want to get up and dance. The music, it would just take us away.”

“I am … not dancing,” Antilochus objects, ignoring Mr. Pelides’ enthusiastic swaying to the beat. 

“Come on, don’t tell me you’ve never danced in your life!” Mr. Pelides beckons for Antilochus to join him. 

“I, well … I’m not very good,” Antilochus argues, but in fact, he did use to dance quite a bit. 

Mr. Pelides is a terrible dancer, but there is something about his face, free of cares, and just plain _happy_ , that makes Antilochus get up and join him. Antilochus forgets about his notebook, abandoned in his pocket, and allows himself this bit of fun for the first time in a while.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Attempted rape.

_The sound of footsteps, echoing in his ears. The looming shadows of the tanks parked on the boundaries of the village. The silhouette of men with their bayonets, gleaming crests nearly blinding when the sun hits them. Achaian voices raised in anger._

Patroclus dreamed of these things, and in the morning he would wake up and pretend they were lost to him. If this was his life now, his only comfort was in the menial tasks of each day. When his hands worked, his mind could rest. It was why he ordered Briseis and Meriones around so much. Less time to think was less time to mourn. There was no place for self-pity, not if they intended to get through this. There was no place for First Lieutenant Achilles Chironides either, but Patroclus had learned to accept him. 

“We cannot be friends,” he told the officer once, at dinner. 

The answering smile he received was both sad and ironic.   
“Yet we are, anyway. If this is how we fight the hatred that has been bred in us, so be it.” 

Those words, however misguided, were fuel for Patroclus to continue. He continued to go to work. He continued to avert his eyes from the soldiers. He continued to learn more about Achilles. It was like a silent war of their own they had waged against their countries. Every step of the way he felt like a traitor, even though he was a far cry from the locals who worked with the army for their own profit. Yet, how could he turn the officer away? 

Even when they had nothing, they had companionship. Once, Briseis and Meriones were what kept him alive. Now, he felt his own need to find out what would happen the next day, and the next. It was a curious thing, what a few words of kindness, a few common interests could do. He wanted to go home everyday, so he could ask Achilles about his best and worst day at the music shop he’d worked at. He wanted to know what Achilles had listened to, what his parents had been like. He hadn’t felt that kind of curiosity about a person since his parents died. 

“Wake up! Patroclus, wake up!” He felt soft breath on his ear, his sister’s hushed voice. 

“What? It’s still early, I didn’t sleep in,” he murmured, and rolled over to go back to sleep. 

“They’re here! That commander and his men!”

This made him sit up straight, and he grabbed Briseis by the arm.   
“They’re not supposed to be here until next week!”

The soldiers often stopped by unannounced, but after months of giving up their food, they had come to predict when the next collection date would be. Commander Agamemnon had not accompanied his men since that first visit when he’d tried to take Briseis. Dread started to pool in Patroclus’ stomach, he felt it all the way to his feet. 

“We don’t have enough to give them,” Briseis cried, hands in her hair. Her face was white with terror, he knew what she was thinking of. 

“Go hide behind the house,” he whispered. He didn’t know what made him say it. Perhaps if the commander had forgotten about Briseis, he wouldn’t notice she was gone. Either that, or he had come specifically for her and they would be punished for trying to hide her. 

“I can’t! They’re going to be looking for me,” Briseis said. 

“Bring Meriones with you.” Patroclus ignored her desperate protests and pulled her towards the back of the house. 

“Inside the vat,” he pointed, indicating the place where they kept their water. He went to wake Meriones. 

Reluctantly, Briseis and Meriones climbed into the vat. Patroclus didn’t know how long they could be in there without being discovered. He didn’t have a plan, only that the commander’s grudge against him would be enough to distract from the other two occupants of the household. Even First Lieutenant Achilles could not help him, the officer having left much earlier for new supplies at the next closest base. 

The darkness of the small hours cast a sinister image of the soldiers outside the house. They were knocking on the door, and the noise echoed on the wooden beams, making Patroclus jerk with every loud thud. He opened the door and quickly stepped back to let them in. 

Commander Agamemnon remained outside, quietly watching like a lion hidden in the bushes. He didn’t have to say a word for his men to know what to do. Two of them marched in and ransacked the kitchen, throwing dishes and utensils on the floor, the crashing sounds a jarring contrast to the otherwise still silence. 

“Where is the food?” one barked. “There is not enough here.”

Patroclus huddled against the wall and winced at the sound of his own small voice. “You haven’t given us enough time,” he gritted out. 

The soldier stepped forward and slapped him hard, his neck thrown backwards like the force of a harsh wind.   
“Shut up!” the soldier cried.   
He picked up a half-empty bag of grains and shook it at Patroclus.   
“You disobey the law! There will be punishment for this!”

Patroclus remained silent this time, willing the soldiers not to look further around the house. 

“Bring him to the commander,” the soldier said to his colleague.   
The second soldier grabbed Patroclus and dragged him out of the kitchen, out of the house. 

Agamemnon was waiting patiently, and merely glanced at Patroclus the way one might glance over some leaves rustling in the wind. 

“This Pelinese scum has failed to comply with our regulations, sir!” the first soldier cried, bringing Patroclus to the ground with a knee against his back. 

The commander raised an eyebrow, as if equally unimpressed and displeased with the notion.   
“Is that so?”   
He started to circle Patroclus, and Patroclus could only begin a silent prayer, to the gods, the spirits of his mother and father, that they were watching over the house and would not allow the commander’s attention to stray to the absent Briseis and Meriones.   
“Such a disappointment. You would think after many weeks, they would have enough to meet our meager requirements. But then, that’s the Pelinese for you,” the commander muttered to his men, in a conversational tone. Some of them started to laugh, but were silenced with a look. 

“These are the same degenerates who murdered righteous Achaians on the soil of Troy. We come to show them Achaian virtue and they spit in our faces. You can’t teach barbarians the ways of moral men.”

The soldiers agreed, but Agamemnon was not looking for their approval. He seemed to speak only for himself. His eyes glittered as he looked Patroclus over, and his stark indifference suddenly gave way. Patroclus shivered under the other man’s gaze. This man was not … human. Couldn’t be. 

“Take him.” The order was given casually, but the intent look in the commander’s eyes … Patroclus let himself be handled by the soldiers, his wordless prayers continuing, as if to shield the house and his siblings from further intrusion.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was taken to the other side of the village, where the wealthier houses were located. He had never been here in his life. The rich and the poor tended to avoid each other like the plague in Pelion. Seeing the way these higher-ranked officers lived, he had no doubt there was some kind of settlement between the army and the rich. It left a sour taste in his mouth. 

Commander Agamemnon stayed in the richest house of the neighborhood. Patroclus had never seen such finery in his life before. He hadn’t even known there were people in the village who could afford all this. He knew the village chief had been executed upon the army’s arrival, which made room for the other officials to fight for a seat on the governing council. It was entirely possible that Commander Agamemnon and probably his brother, Menelaus, were working together with these men, possibly even threatening them. 

Patroclus thought it was the former, from the way the neighborhood seemed uncharacteristically welcoming of Achaian presence. He cringed at the red and golden banners on every house, the street signs in Achaian, even the newspapers on some lawns that were clearly not the local Pelinese paper. It was like he had stepped into Achaia itself, and he had never left the village in his life to know what their enemy country would look like. 

The soldiers brought him to a sitting room and left him there, guards posted outside the doors so he knew not to escape. Commander Agamemnon did not show up for several hours. He was starting to fall asleep at the inactivity when the door opened and the commander strode in. 

The man said nothing as he poured himself a glass of whiskey. It looked like whiskey, anyway. Patroclus watched him and gripped the edge of his seat. He hadn’t been punished the way he thought he would. He’d been holding his breath all day, wondering if the soldiers meant to blind him, or tie him to a post outside and leave him to starve to death. Agamemnon had other plans for him, and he’d been afraid so long that he suddenly couldn’t tell the difference between fear and numbness.

The commander took his time draining his glass. The man was in no hurry at all. Patroclus wondered what sort of gruesome torture the other man had cooked up, to be so relaxed like this. He imagined Agamemnon had the same look on his face when condemning villagers to death. 

“What do you want from me?” he finally whispered, when he could take it no more. 

The commander’s calm demeanor instantly faded, revealing a distorted rage.  
“You do not speak, Pelinese filth,” he retorted.  
He inspected his empty glass, then let it fall from his hand so it smashed into pieces on the ground. He turned around as if not noticing the mess.

“I could have you beaten for your insolence,” he voiced, once again emotionless.   
“But I fear it would be a missed opportunity. After all, our great leaders stress the importance of teaching. I must turn aside my own interests to show you the value in Achaian virtue. We didn’t march into Pelion for our enemies to learn nothing. There is still hope, even for heathens like yourself.” 

Patroclus grimaced. Of all the military officers he could have gotten the attention of, why did it have to be the one a few marks short of being sane? He clamped his mouth shut. He knew not all Achaians were like this, from what Achilles had told him, but the ones who were - they tended to be the most dangerous. 

Agamemnon turned again to study Patroclus, and seemed like he was enjoying himself a great deal underneath his mask of distaste.   
“I think your services in my household will be lesson enough for the time being. You will know the mercy of my people.”

Patroclus barely restrained himself from scoffing at this ridiculous statement. Mercy? The next thing Agamemnon would say was that killing innocent villagers was a mercy from their hardships. He would gladly worship his gods and be seen as an unlawful heathen than succumb to this idea of Achaian morality. 

Achilles hadn’t told him much about the philosophy the Imperial Army lived by, except that Achaian citizens were divided on the issue. It had once been an unpopular, niche belief proposed by a military writer decades before the start of the Great War, but conveniently expanded on traditional Achaian religion. The Empire was formed mostly on this belief. Patroclus hadn’t understood most of what Achilles explained, but he did understand one thing. 

The Imperial Army believed that their military was the highest good, and it was their duty to spread this idea to the nations they conquered. To do this, they had to discard everything that stood in the way of Achaian morality. Languages, writings, music and film, everything that suggested people had a right to their independence. It was insanity, and Patroclus sat in this room thinking how wrong the world he lived in was, a world that had allowed this to happen. 

“Clean it up,” Agamemnon murmured, eyes glancing over the shards of glass on the floor. He left the room as quietly as he had arrived. 

Patroclus looked at the floor and wondered what kind of gilded trap he had been placed in. This commander proved to be far more dangerous than he had anticipated, yet looking back, he didn’t know how it could have been any different. He still would have protected Briseis, still would have attracted unwanted attention. There was no way out, except to keep moving like he always did.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Present Day**

“You don’t speak of it much,” Antilochus observes, watching Mr. Pelides’ expression, which is grimmer than usual.   
“The philosophy … religion, some may argue?... of the Imperial Army.”

Mr. Pelides has a small frown on his face.   
“It’s not something people like to discuss. After the fall of the Empire, any texts on Achaian morality were banned. The Trojans made sure of it. People were condemned if they were even suspected of upholding these beliefs. It was an incredibly hard time for former imperial soldiers, even those who never truly believed in it.”

“Do you think that was what motivated the cruelty of these soldiers? That there were no repercussions for their actions, because they were simply fighting for the greater good?” 

“One would think that,” Mr. Pelides concedes.   
“But really, it was more complicated than that. You have to remember, only a small portion of the army were true fanatics. The problem was, these men were intelligent and charismatic. They rose up in the ranks faster than their peers. Many military units were constantly cut off from the primary chain of command and had to rely on their immediate superiors. Sometimes this belief, however wrong, was the only thing that united them.” 

“This isn’t discussed much in Achaia anymore?” Antilochus presses.

“It’s an extremely controversial topic. You know about the famous trial? That put an end to most of it. There are still underground extremists, the younger generation who get obsessed with their history and think that Achaian morality is part of their heritage. Dangerous thinking, but again, it is too controversial and I don’t think the Achaian public will ever allow it to happen again.”

“And I understand that this was another factor that made life so much harder for refugees? The locals always assuming that every refugee believed in this garbage?” 

Mr. Pelides nods. “Achaian morality has damaged more lives than saved them. It’s a shadow that the Achaian people desperately try to outrun.” 

The air had grown rather melancholy, although Antilochus is glad that he could bring this up. 

“Now, you’ve mentioned before that the Imperial Army would not acknowledge their enforcement of slavery during the war? They claimed that the locals were paid for their services, when really -”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Pelion**

In many ways, the work was easier than what Patroclus had to do at the kitchen. He had definitely lost that job by now. This was work that he was familiar with. He cleaned, did laundry, prepared all of the commander’s meals. It took up his entire day, but he was able to avoid the commander by keeping busy. He wasn’t allowed to leave the house, but he could still watch outside activity from the windows. 

Agamemnon had many meetings in the main room of the house, but most of the time he was gone to supervise the army barracks, which were nearly complete. Several laborers had died during its construction, and Patroclus could see the smoke from the window, of their bodies being burned. 

The lack of human contact he had was grating at the least, isolating at the worst. Sometimes there would be someone to deliver Agamemnon’s food supplies. Other than that, there was no one he could talk to. He hadn’t been able to say goodbye to Briseis and Meriones. He hadn’t been able to talk to Achilles before he’d been wrenched away from the house. 

At least they were safe, he thought. Briseis and Meriones could get by without him. They would have no money, but he thought perhaps they could take up his old job selling produce in the market. It made him worry; the market was even more dangerous than it had been when the army first arrived. The soldiers grew more bold and unruly every week. He knew his siblings had no choice, but it didn’t stop him from lamenting every day that he wasn’t there to look out for them. 

He had been at Agamemnon’s house for nearly a month, and it was starting to rain. He went outside to collect the laundry before it got wet. He hated the feel of the commander’s uniform against his hands. It seemed to burn. Every day he imagined putting poison in the commander’s meals, except it could never be more than idle fantasy.

“Who’s this?” 

He turned abruptly at the voice, a group of soldiers leaning outside the commander’s house. 

“Why, it’s the commander’s Pelinese whore,” one of them said, his grin wide and malicious.

“There must be something special about these Pelinese, if even the commander has one.” 

The men laughed together, the sound ugly and stinging in Patroclus’ ears. He shrugged it off and started to walk away from them. He’d encountered it before, soldiers who liked to taunt the villagers. It was their idea of fun. 

“We never get any new girls at the camp anymore. Boys are even rarer. They keep getting sick and dying,” a second voice said, and Patroclus clenched his fists at the words. 

“It’s slim pickings around here. They’re not even that good looking.”

“Who asked you to look at their faces?” another laughed. 

“I don’t know about you, but I can only go through so many tits and cunts before I get a bit bored,” the first voice replied. 

“This one’s not bad, though.” 

Patroclus froze as he realized the men were looking at him. He clutched the laundry close to his chest and walked faster. 

“Hey, where are you going?” one called. 

The other men continued to laugh. “Your ugly mug is enough to scare him away!” 

“He’s a whore, any mug is good enough for him!” the man replied. 

Just when Patroclus thought they weren’t going to follow him, their footsteps approached and he found himself backed up against a wall. 

“Wouldn’t have thought the commander liked this kind,” the tallest soldier observed, his gaze harsh and feverishly bright as it raked over Patroclus’ body. 

“What do you mean this kind?” the one next to him said. “We can’t see anything.” 

“Well, we’re just going to have to take care of that.” The first soldier moved forward and grabbed at Patroclus. 

Patroclus yelped, slipping out of his grasp and looking desperately for an opening to escape. He should have checked. He should have looked out the window to see if anybody was there before he went out to take in the laundry.   
He looked at these men one by one, memorizing their faces. A kind of horror seized him, seeing their expressions of glee, their seemingly lighthearted attitudes.

“Leave me alone,” he managed, and they only laughed even more. 

“You telling us what to do, you little slut?” The first man grabbed at Patroclus again, and threw him against the wall when Patroclus tried to resist. 

“Stupid bitch.” Patroclus watched as the laundry fell to the ground around him, and the first soldier closed in on him. 

“Maybe we shouldn’t … I mean, the commander-” one of the others started to object, but the first soldier brushed him off. 

“Who’s going to tell? Certainly not this filthy Pelinese.”   
He was angrier than the others. Patroclus could have started to weep in fear, he had done nothing for this man to be as enraged as he was. Hard hands tugged at his thin clothes, tearing at the fabric. The other men gave no sign of further protest. Patroclus struggled, writhing away from the soldier’s grip, but it was no use. He was weak from lack of food, the traces of his first injury still remained, and he was powerless against this trained military man. 

The man grabbed hold of his hair to wrench his head back, and he suddenly lurched forward and clamped his teeth onto the man’s ear. He didn’t let go, not even at the man’s howls of pain. He might have just made it worse for himself; there were too many of them, and they would surely exact revenge on him for even the slightest injury. 

He was beginning to taste blood when he realized he couldn’t hear the other men anymore. He opened his eyes, and the first soldier scrambled off him, quickly stepping away. 

Agamemnon was standing right in front of them, a dark look on his already stern face. 

“Sir,” one of the soldiers gasped.   
“We were just-”

“It was his fault,” the first soldier who had grabbed Patroclus immediately interrupted.   
“He tried to attack us. We were only giving him his due punishment.” The soldier pointed at his bleeding ear. “Look what he did to me.” 

Agamemnon raised an eyebrow, and Patroclus could feel his already pounding heart race even faster. What was worse than being attacked by a group of soldiers? Surely Agamemnon would think of something. 

“I would imagine he did that because you tried to rape him,” the commander said, tone dry. It could almost be construed as a joke, except the commander’s face said the opposite. 

“Sir, we -”

“Silence.” Agamemnon studied each of the men as a hush fell over them. 

Patroclus was frowning in confusion by now. So the commander was not going to blame him? Everything else Agamemnon had done in the past suggested otherwise. 

“You will report to the barracks immediately. It seems a lesson is required on how to conduct yourselves on your superiors’ territory.” 

“Yes, sir.” The first soldier shot Patroclus a glare as they gathered together and left. 

Patroclus took a breath and rearranged his clothing. He struggled to meet Agamemnon’s eyes, but the commander wasn’t looking at him, only at the laundry that had fallen to the ground. 

“You don’t expect me to wear that,” he said, his steely demeanor unpierced.   
“You have shown a little competence until this point. I would hate to be disappointed.” 

Patroclus looked at the ground again and started to pick up the laundry. There was something about the commander that managed to make him feel humiliated with just a few words.


	6. Chapter 6

It was a few weeks later when he saw his only chance at escape. Agamemnon had not spoken to him further, but he found his chores increasing. It was usually late into the night when he could finally retire to bed, a mat on the floor outside the kitchen. Agamemnon had poured cold water on him the few times he’d failed to wake up before dawn, in time to serve the commander’s breakfast. The commander had a hushed cruelty about him, one that needed no screaming or harsh reprimands. He was simply a man of action. 

He could take one look at Patroclus, black eyes boring into Patroclus’ skin until he started to shake. Once, Patroclus had dropped a bowl and the commander had kicked him hard in the back of the knee. There had been no words exchanged, only that swift, brutal action. Patroclus had never encountered anything like it before, and the fear of not knowing what to expect broke his spirit more than any other beating he could have received. 

He was close to giving up when a visit from Menelaus interrupted the quiet little world that was his prison. He hadn’t seen any sign of the other commander since that day the man had stopped Briseis from being taken. It had been Menelaus’ words that had made Patroclus stop to think, start to consider the Achaians as more than just a faceless enemy. He didn’t know how far he could trust the commander, but Menelaus had proved at least once to be a reasonable man. If he objected to the enslavement of children, perhaps there was a chance he would listen to Patroclus.

There was no word of Menelaus’ arrival, no soldiers accompanying him to the house. Patroclus had been scrubbing the kitchen floors when he could hear someone else in the house. Agamemnon kept to his office most of the time, and was so silent that the other noises had to be someone else. Patroclus crept out of the kitchen and towards Agamemnon’s office. The door was slightly ajar, and he could see the two men inside. If they really were brothers, there was certainly little resemblance. Patroclus wouldn’t have imagined they were related if Menelaus hadn’t let it slip the first day he’d met them. 

He felt the slightest spring of hope at seeing the other commander. All this while, there had been no one he could ask for help, but this time - he had to wait until Menelaus was alone. He didn’t know if he would get the chance. The best thing to do was to wait, then he could catch the other commander while he was leaving. 

They talked for a long time, and Patroclus debated on whether or not to eavesdrop. He couldn’t really understand what they were saying. He had a basic grasp of Achaian, and their conversation went beyond what he could comprehend. Complex military tactics, Achaian politics, perhaps. He gave up and returned to the kitchen, keeping his ears wide open for any indication of Menelaus leaving. 

He was beginning to think that the other commander planned to stay the night, it was getting so late. Finally, he heard the door to Agamemnon’s office shut, and gathered that Menelaus was letting himself out through the front door. 

“Commander!” he called, rushing out after the man, taking care that his voice didn’t carry over to Agamemnon’s office.

Menelaus paused outside the doorway and looked at Patroclus in blunt confusion. He didn’t seem to recognize him, at first. Then, slowly, it clicked, and the man crossed his arms and waited for Patroclus to reach him. Patroclus quickly shut the door so they faced each other outside the house. 

“You,” Menelaus said, sounding curious.   
“What was your name? Menoetiades?”

“Yes,” Patroclus replied, and suddenly felt nervous. He’d only met this man once before, and while Menelaus had been pleasant and cordial, he was also a military commander. And looked every bit of it.

“I must say, I didn’t expect to see you here,” Menelaus stated. He wasn’t much taller than Patroclus, and looked rather young up close. He had that kind of face; a face that seemed impossible not to trust, too gentle to ever be the cause of fear. Yet, it made Patroclus even more anxious. 

“I have been kept here by Commander Agamemnon,” Patroclus explained, and watched as Menelaus raised his eyebrows.   
“I was taken from my home and forced to come here. Please, commander. If you would allow me to go home.”

Menelaus was silent for a moment, studying Patroclus intently. 

“I’m very sorry to hear that,” he finally responded.  
“I didn’t know you had been taken from your home. If I did, you can be sure I would have intervened.”

“I only want to go home. Please. My family is waiting for me. I haven’t heard from them in over a month.”

Menelaus looked up at the house, and back at Patroclus. He had a sympathetic expression on his face. 

“It’s going to be hard to convince my brother to let you go. He doesn’t usually take servants, you know. He must have taken a liking to you.”

Patroclus frowned in disbelief, thinking Menelaus had to be joking, but the other man only looked completely sincere. 

“I am on my way to the barracks. If you accompany me, I trust you can make your own passage home? I will explain to Commander Agamemnon tonight.”

Patroclus could have slumped in relief, then realized exactly what Menelaus was proposing.   
“You’re saying … run away? You’ll let me run away?”   
He started to look for guards outside the house, but they were usually off duty when Agamemnon was home. 

Menelaus smiled slightly. “I would hardly call it that. Come, I will make sure he understands.” 

Patroclus looked back at the house. Surely he wouldn’t choose to stay. He had been waiting for this, and Menelaus was his only option. Still, that smile bothered him the entire way back. It was too easy. If Menelaus didn’t do as he said he would, Patroclus would be blamed for running away. Yet, he somehow thought that Menelaus didn’t wish him any harm. Whatever the man’s motives were, he would have to tread very carefully and avoid any future encounters with Agamemnon once he got home.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Patroclus!” Meriones exclaimed when he entered the house. His brother ran straight into his arms. A second later, Briseis was there. They hugged him tightly, the relief evident on their faces.

“We didn’t know what happened to you,” Briseis sobbed. 

“I’m alright. I’m here now,” Patroclus soothed, hugging them both back.

“We asked everyday who was executed in the market square, and nobody said it was you. So we just had to hope that you were alive.”

Patroclus sighed, not knowing how to explain it to Briseis and Meriones.   
“That commander took me back to his house and made me work there. That was what I was doing this whole time.”

He took a long look at them both, making sure they were in good health. 

“What’s been happening? How have you both been getting by? Is there enough to eat? Did the soldiers come again to take our food?”

“They came once,” said Briseis. She and Meriones shared a look. 

“They didn’t do anything to us. We gave them everything we had.”

Patroclus placed a palm over his face. “So you’ve been starving.”

“There were some onions behind the house we could eat. And, well … the officer gave us some food.” 

“Officer?” Patroclus’ gaze swivelled to the closed door that was Achilles’ room.   
“He did?”

“We tried to get your old job at the farm, but it was in ruin. We looked and looked for work, but nobody was hiring.”

They had fared worse than Patroclus had thought. So much had relied on his wages from the kitchen. And now they had lost that source of income, too. Hot anger filled him from the inside out; Agamemnon had taken more than a month of his life away, and had disrupted his entire family. 

“Where is the officer?” he asked.

“He’s still out. He said he would ask about you, but we’ve been asking him everyday and he didn’t have any news.” 

Patroclus patted Briseis on the back to reassure her. He couldn’t even fault his siblings for speaking so openly with the officer. Achilles had proved he didn’t mean them harm.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Briseis and Meriones had gone to sleep, but Patroclus found he couldn’t join them. He stayed up, ruminating over the past month and the time he’d lost. What were they going to do now? He waited up for another reason, because he needed to talk to Achilles. Needed to know that Briseis and Meriones really were as well as they appeared. And to thank him. The officer had no reason to look out for his siblings, but he still had. It was a sort of decency that had been absent during Patroclus’ time at Agamemnon’s house. 

It was late when Achilles returned. He stood still in the doorway for what seemed like an age, staring at Patroclus like a specter from past days. 

“Thank god you’re back,” Achilles said.

Patroclus felt himself rise up, meeting the other man halfway. What he was looking for, he didn’t know. It was just some sort of gravitational pull that made him want to be near Achilles again, unable to tear his eyes away from the other man's face. It felt like the release of a deep breath, a completely unfamiliar sensation. He hadn’t even thought about the officer that much while he was away. At least, he didn’t think so. 

“I … Briseis says you helped them.” 

Achilles hovered near Patroclus, making a visible effort to hold himself back.   
“But I couldn’t help you. I’m sorry, Patroclus.” 

Patroclus closed his eyes. “I almost gave up in there.” The words came out on their own accord.

“I tried to find you,” Achilles offered. “I did. I searched the infantry camp. I thought maybe you’d been killed and they burned your body before I could find it.” 

“But Agamemnon didn’t take me there,” Patroclus replied, his voice taking a bitter turn. “I was kept in his house. Menelaus came and I asked him to let me go.”

Achilles frowned at this. “Menelaus?” 

Patroclus nodded. “He let me leave. He was the only person who could help.” 

Achilles wouldn’t stop frowning. “You have to be careful, Patroclus.”

“I didn’t say I trusted him,” Patroclus retorted. “But I couldn’t stay there.”

“Were you hurt?” Achilles asked.

Patroclus thought of Agamemnon, his quick, sharp ways of showing his authority. He was bone-tired from the experience, but he could only shake his head.   
“I’ll be alright.”

They were silent for a moment, unsure what to say to each other. 

“You were kind to Briseis and Meriones when I wasn’t here,” Patroclus whispered. “Thank you.”   
He paused.   
“You’ve always been kind. You can’t imagine the anger I felt when you first showed up here. I was wrong.”

“No, you were right to be wary. The army has done nothing but savage your people. If you think I blame you at all, that’s not the case.”   
Achilles took a breath.   
“I would have expected your hatred. But … you talked to me, tried to understand. I haven’t talked to anyone like this for a long time, Patroclus. You can’t imagine how freeing it is.”

“I wish we weren’t at war,” Patroclus lamented.

“Then I wouldn’t have met you.” Achilles stopped himself.   
“It’s a selfish thing to say. But it’s true. We would never have known each other otherwise.”

“But you _don’t_ know me,” Patroclus argued. Even as the words left his lips, he knew they weren’t true. 

“But I do. And I think you know me. I might be a soldier. I’m surrounded by violence, people blinded by the lies the Empire has fed us … I think the only person who sees who I am is you.” 

Patroclus let out a long sigh. “And me? What do you see?”

“You were enslaved by a ruthless military officer, and the first thing you said to me when you made it back was about your family.”

“They _are_ alright? Briseis and Meriones? I know they couldn’t find work, I was so wrong about it-”

“They’re fine. They were very worried about you.”

“It’s been the three of us for a long time. I was afraid I hadn’t taught them enough. The only thing I want for them is to be able to survive, without me.” 

“They’re smart children. They know how to think for themselves. I think you’d be proud to know how they handled you being away from them.” 

Patroclus clutched at his chest, somehow thinking he could stop the rapid beating of his heart.   
“I felt I wasn’t ever going to make it back. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like Commander Agamemnon. The man is … there’s something about him.”

“He has more power than he deserves,” Achilles observed, tone growing dark. 

“What will happen to me?” Patroclus asked.   
“When he finds out I’m gone?” He heard the shakiness in his voice, and all of a sudden it was back. That sense of helplessness, of dread. He’d made it home without a mark on him and he didn’t even have the time to be truly relieved. This hunted down feeling, like a brand permanently etched into his skin. 

Achilles tentatively stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder. His hand was warm and rough, and somehow, even that simple gesture brought the slightest comfort to Patroclus. Patroclus looked up and saw the struggle in Achilles’ face. His powerlessness. It made him think of what Achilles had looked like, when Achaia had been bombed by the Trojans. The music shop he’d found so much joy at, nothing but ruins and debris.

It was with this thought that he found himself in Achilles’ arms. Whether he’d done it to seek a form of reassurance, or to give it, he couldn’t tell. The solid warmth of another person was more overwhelming than he’d imagined. He hadn’t allowed himself to be held like this, not even by Briseis. He saw Achilles close his eyes, felt him breathe through his hair. He smelled like gun oil, dirt, and tobacco, and it was somehow a familiar scent, exactly what he’d expected. 

“How am I any better than the traitors of my country?” Patroclus murmured. 

“I think you’re asking the wrong person,” Achilles laughed, chin moving on Patroclus’ shoulder. 

“I don’t care where you’re from. I don’t care whose side you’re on. You don’t know how many places I’ve been to, Patroclus, with the army. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone like you.”

Patroclus hugged Achilles tighter. “You told me the stories of your people. And I told you mine. I don’t think anyone else would have ever let me, Achilles.” 

They parted, and Patroclus missed the feeling of Achilles immediately. 

“Did you like the little radio?” Achilles asked, and Patroclus could have marveled at his smile. Where was the man who had shown up on his doorstep, someone he could have abhorred and blamed for all his troubles? He knew so little of the world. Achilles had shown him a small glimpse of it, and already, he wanted more.

“You didn’t have to,” Patroclus replied, but found himself smiling back. 

“I know you said it reminded you of your mother. But I thought - perhaps it could remind you of something else. Somewhere in Troy, the big bands are playing, and we’ll get to see it one day.” 

“Don’t talk of such things,” Patroclus replied, his old pessimism showing through. 

“I _will_ talk of such things,” Achilles countered. “I will talk all I want about a different life, because we had it once and we could have it again.”

“There’s too much to hope for,” Patroclus argued, but he knew it sounded weak. 

“I would have said the same thing, once. But I don’t want that anymore. I’m tired of being uncertain and afraid.”

He went to the windowsill and switched on the radio. “I’m going to think of this, whenever I feel like I can’t take it anymore. The music … it takes you to another place, don’t you agree?” 

Patroclus stared at Achilles. His mother had said something so similar once. Then he had an idea, and he flushed to think of it, but the day had made him bold.   
“Take my hand,” he said. 

Achilles raised an eyebrow. “You’re not asking me to dance?”

Patroclus grinned. “You know I am, and you’re going to do as I say.”

“I’m terrible. Really, I am. I would spare you from seeing it.”

“Take my hand, Achilles.” Patroclus held it out, a firm invitation. 

Achilles gave a resigned noise and took it, his fingers slipping into Patroclus’. “Never did go to those sorts of dances,” he grumbled, but Patroclus only laughed. 

“Your own fault. Didn’t you know you should be prepared to dance anywhere, at any time?” 

“I’m going to step on your feet,” Achilles replied, and smirked. “On purpose.” 

Patroclus had never looked at him properly. He looked now, and watched the lamplight dance on Achilles’ sharp features. 

The music was turned low, so as not to wake the entire household. But its quietness awakened a tune in Patroclus’ own heart, one he’d thought had been lost.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Present Day**

“Ever been in love, boy?” Mr. Pelides asks, languid smile juxtaposed by the intensity of his gaze. 

Antilochus finds himself fidgeting in embarrassment at the question.  
“No,” he replies. 

Mr. Pelides picks up on the regretfulness of his tone and chuckles.  
“Don’t you worry, you’ll have plenty of chances! Good-looking boy like you? You’re young. Don’t count yourself out just yet.”

Antilochus lets his thoughts drift to a first kiss, awkward school dances, sneaking glances at a person he works with. He flushes. He’s never been one to dive headfirst into romance. He looks at Mr. Pelides and thinks the old man was likely the opposite.


	7. Chapter 7

The old farm had been destroyed, but Patroclus was going to find some means to make a living. Even if that meant dealing with the farmer, the nastiest old man Patroclus had known in his life. The man had already been unpleasant before the war, but the ruin of his land by the army had made him worse. Patroclus was being worked to the bone every day, digging and replanting. It would be a while before there would be anything good enough to sell in the market. The farmer paid Patroclus next to nothing for his work.

Briseis and Meriones had jobs there too, helping to rebuild the old farmhouse and animal pens. They came home every day exhausted, but Briseis and Meriones remained in good spirits and seemed to be relieved that they could help out in any way. It also meant they were kept further away from the soldiers who prowled the main streets of the village. The soldiers barely ventured into the farmland any more, seeing as they assumed it was no longer functioning. 

When a few crops had grown enough to be harvested, Patroclus decided he would bring them from house to house to sell. There wasn’t enough for a big cart to the market, and he wasn’t keen on being seen in public. Ever since his return home, there had been no sign that Menelaus hadn’t kept to his word. Still, it was better to be safe than sorry. 

Patroclus was on his way to the far side of the village when he ran into Thoas, carrying large buckets of food on a yoke over his shoulders. Even with his lame leg, the man had sufficient upper body strength, but he struggled to walk under the weight. 

“Thoas,” Patroclus greeted. “What are you doing with those heavy buckets? Have you got a new job?” 

“What do you think?” his neighbor snapped. 

Patroclus took a surprised step back. Thoas was glaring at him, his expression full of venom.   
“What’s the matter with you?” 

“I got your old job feeding the laborers. Of course, I can’t push a cart.”   
Thoas’ tone was bitter.  
“At least some of us continue doing honest work, though. Even if we aren’t as able-bodied as we’d like.”

Patroclus was stunned. “What on earth are you talking about?”

“I suppose most of us simply don’t have the looks to whore ourselves out to the imperial soldiers.”

Patroclus nearly dropped his basket of produce in anger.   
“You have no idea what you’re saying, Thoas. I suggest you walk away before this gets out of hand.”

“Walk away? Oh, gladly. You think I have any respect for you anymore, you filthy Achaian-loving slut? I am curious, though. How much were they paying you? Must have been better than the kitchen job, even if you had to suck Achaian cock.”

Patroclus felt as though he’d been slapped.   
“You don’t know, Thoas. You don’t know anything! Have you any idea how much of a hateful idiot you sound like? I wasn’t hired by the soldiers, I was taken away by force! If you’d been paying even the slightest bit of attention on what goes on in our neighborhood, you’d have noticed!”   
He was so livid he’d started shaking a little. 

Thoas spat on the ground. “You think I don’t pay attention? It’s you who doesn’t pay attention! You live in your own little world and you are blind to the cruelties we endure! Apparently our people’s suffering is not enough to turn your stomach! I used to think you hated them as much as the rest of us, Patroclus.” 

“Oh fuck off, Thoas. Hate has nothing to do with it. Fuck you for thinking I would prostitute myself to imperial soldiers for money. You’re a gods forsaken halfwit if you believe that about me after all this time we’ve known each other. My mother used to babysit your brother, for fuck’s sake. I’m glad you have a job now, at least you won’t starve.” 

Patroclus turned his back on Thoas and walked away, unable to care about what the other man thought any more.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The time of the Harvest Festival came around. It was the most important celebration of the year in Pelion, but this year would be different. The streets were dead quiet in the evenings, whereas a year ago they would have been filled with the sounds of laughter, children running around with their sparklers, and lanterns hanging in every corner. 

Patroclus sat indoors with Briseis and Meriones, trying to distract them from the melancholy atmosphere.   
“I have a day off tomorrow,” Patroclus told them. “What should we do?”

Meriones straightened, a hopeful look on his face.  
“Make a bonfire?” he suggested. 

Patroclus hesitated. The third day of the festival was Ancestors’ Day, where the whole neighborhood would gather together in front of a fire. 

“I don’t think we can do that this year, Meriones,” Patroclus decided, regretful. He’d expected Meriones to ask for something else, like special festival foods. 

“What if we make a small fire? Just behind the house?” Meriones urged. 

Patroclus contemplated this. “Meriones …”

“Then we can put out some logs, for you, me, Briseis, mother, father, and Officer Achilles.” 

Patroclus started. “Officer Achilles?” 

“Well, he’ll have to sit _somewhere_ ,” Meriones replied, as though Patroclus was an idiot. 

He didn’t know why his brother insisted on a fire this year. Meriones had never cared much before. Studying the boy closely, he wondered if it had something to do with the old tradition. Ancestors’ Day was the one day of the year spirits from the netherworld were allowed to walk the earth. That was the whole purpose of the bonfire, to light the way for them to return to their homes. Families usually set out empty seats for their dead relatives. Patroclus certainly had, all the years since his parents’ deaths. He had a feeling Meriones needed that sense of normalcy again, that familiarity. 

“I’ll ask him. But don’t be too disappointed if he says no. The soldiers have been patrolling the neighborhoods more than usual lately,” Patroclus warned. 

Meriones’ answering beam was enough to make Patroclus get up to find Achilles.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  
The officer was behind the house scraping mud off his boots. Patroclus stood silently for a while until Achilles noticed him and looked up. 

“Do you need something?” His serious face was on. 

Patroclus shuffled his feet, thinking of what to say. He was feeling nervous all of a sudden. He’d never really asked Achilles for anything before.  
“I was wondering if, um …” 

Achilles set his boots aside, gaze softening.   
“Is it about the festival?” 

Patroclus stared, surprised. “How did you-”

Achilles grinned and shrugged; the nervousness Patroclus had been feeling melted away immediately. 

“Meriones has been talking about it all week.” He paused, pushing his hair off his face. It had gotten longer since his arrival months ago, so that it was no longer in that neat military cut. It made his features look less severe. 

“Tomorrow is Ancestors’ Day,” Patroclus explained. “Would it be possible for us to make a small fire here? It’s a tradition.” 

Achilles cast a glance around the vicinity of the house. 

“I know it’s not allowed,” Patroclus added quickly. 

They exchanged a long look, Achilles’ light eyes meeting Patroclus’ dark ones. 

“Thank you,” Patroclus whispered.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Meriones hadn’t stopped chattering, even when they’d started gathering kindling for the fire. 

“Are you going to help or not?” Patroclus grumbled. 

Achilles watched them in amusement, and Patroclus couldn’t help shooting him a glance every now and then, a wordless conversation about how Meriones was acting. 

“Tell me about this special holiday of yours,” Achilles voiced, directing his gaze at Meriones. 

The boy flushed and looked at the ground. He still tended to avoid speaking directly to the officer, but Patroclus sensed it was out of his natural shyness than any kind of fear. 

“Go on,” Patroclus encouraged. 

Meriones reluctantly looked at Achilles.   
“We get to tell ghost stories,” he whispered.

“Ghost stories?” Achilles echoed, smile widening. “Now you have me interested.”

Meriones stared back uncertainly, then allowed a small smile in return before hurrying off to find more kindling. 

“Think he’s warming up to me,” Achilles observed, gazing off into the distance after the boy. 

“Do you have any siblings?” Patroclus asked, after a moment’s pause.

“No. Just me.” Achilles bent over the firewood, arranging it into a pile.   
“You do this every year?”

“It’s usually a bigger fire. The whole neighborhood does it together.” 

They worked together, trading anecdotes, and Patroclus couldn’t help but feel at ease. It really did feel like old times again, even with the bizarre image of an imperial soldier alongside them building the fire.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Present Day**

“Up there!” Mr. Pelides wheezes, pointing at a part of the roof that is still bare. 

Antilochus holds up his armful of paper lanterns - he’d made similar ones at school when he was a kid. He’d arrived at Mr. Pelides’ that morning to find the old man losing his balance on a ladder. 

“You can’t be doing that, Mr. Pelides!” he’d exclaimed, quickly helping the old man down. 

Now, Mr. Pelides is making him hang up the lanterns, and he doesn’t think he can start the interview until afternoon at the earliest. 

“Don’t take any of these down without calling me first,” Antilochus cautions as he climbs up the ladder. “I mean it, Mr. Pelides.” 

Mr. Pelides squints up at him from ground level.   
“They look good!” he gives a thumbs up.   
“Looks like a house in Pelion did back then!”   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Pelion**

There had been times when both Briseis and Meriones had been afraid, sitting in the darkness of night under tall trees, on a day when spirits supposedly walked the earth. Tonight, they were more animated than Patroclus had seen them in a while. They laughed together and made up their own twisted versions of a ghost story. They begged Patroclus to tell one, but he rolled his eyes at them. 

“I won’t,” he said. “You two have disturbed and disgusted the rest of us enough for one night. Besides, it’s late, and you should get to bed.”

“Wait, but what about Officer Achilles? He hasn’t told a story yet!” Meriones objected, from his seat on the log next to Achilles. After a few hours, Meriones had shaken off his initial shyness and now hung on to Achilles’ every word. 

“Bed. Time.” Patroclus kept his voice stern, but heard Achilles’ laugh. 

“I can tell a quick one. And then we can go to sleep.” 

“Oh no, I won’t be able to sleep now,” Briseis cut in, ignoring Patroclus’ exasperated look. 

“Should have thought about that before all that storytelling, hmm?” 

“Mine isn’t scary at all,” Achilles assured them. 

He started, and Patroclus kept getting the sense he’d heard it before. The tale of a battlefield from long ago, of a warrior refusing to fight. The sacrifice of a close friend’s life, and a lifetime wandering the earth in search of lost love. 

“Well, now I’m just too sad to sleep,” Briseis mumbled after Achilles had finished. 

“Sad or not, you’re going to bed. Goodnight,” Patroclus announced. 

The siblings made weak protests, but got up and retired to the house, leaving Patroclus and Achilles alone in front of the bright flames. Patroclus glanced at Achilles’ face, in shadow and then in light, almost like the way he’d looked the night they had danced together. 

“What are you thinking about?” Patroclus asked, before he could stop himself. He marveled at how easily Achilles’ smiles came now, as though there was one already made for him before it had begun to show on the other man’s face. 

“I’m thinking about how beautiful it must have been. This time of year, in Pelion, with the bonfire and the people sitting around it ready to welcome the dead. You’ve given me a small glimpse of it.” 

“It was a sight to see,” Patroclus agreed. “Special, every year.” 

The flames started to spit small crackles of light, like little fireflies.

“What traditions you have,” Achilles breathed, leaning back in satisfaction. “I am sorry indeed my people are trying to butcher your way of life.”

“That is not … you don’t have to apologize for that,” Patroclus murmured, looking away.

“Someone has to,” Achilles shrugged. 

“Not you. You helped us. You lit the fire.”

“I’d light a thousand fires if you asked me to.”

Patroclus went still, the silence between them prickling at his skin. He dared himself to meet Achilles’ gaze. If he could allow himself, even once, to look. 

“You don’t mean that,” he said, trying for a sheepish smile. 

Achilles said nothing, only leaned closer until their faces were an inch apart. 

“Watch me.” 

Patroclus would never know what possessed him to close the distance. He found himself inching closer, eyes falling shut, until he felt soft lips against his own. It felt like one of those fever dreams he’d had as a child, illusion blending into reality, the smell of the fire and the coolness of the night wind swirling together to form a haze in his mind. 

Realizing what he was doing, Patroclus jerked back and covered his mouth with a hand.  
“I-” Shocked at himself, he could only stare wide-eyed at Achilles, who watched him cautiously. 

A moment passed, Patroclus waiting for the fog in his brain to clear. It never did. All he saw when he looked at Achilles were the dancing shadows on his face, the embers of the fire reflected in his eyes. It was a wild and unfamiliar sight, but the way his heart lurched in his chest told him this wasn’t just anybody. This wasn’t some stranger sitting at the fire. This was Achilles, who was so much more than the army he served.

_His Achilles_. The thought came and he immediately shook it away. 

Achilles made a small sound, and Patroclus gave in. He brought their mouths together again, basking in this moment. Achilles’ lips moved against his slowly, surely, his hands coming up to cup Patroclus’ face. It was sweet and good, the warmth of the fire on their skin, like they had all the time in the world.   
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Patroclus would have thought things were going to get uncomfortable after the kiss. After they’d finally parted, they rose and wordlessly put out the fire, exchanging looks that spoke volumes more than any words they could find. Patroclus had gone to bed feeling warmed from the inside out, unable to stop touching his lips as if he could still feel a trace of the other man there. 

There had been a definite change between them since then. It wasn’t what Patroclus had expected. He woke up every morning, a bubbling of anticipation in his gut at the thought of seeing Achilles. The other’s presence had become a comfort in the house. Patroclus would catch sight of his shadow working outside and feel a tightness in his chest, like there was no space for his heart anymore. It was a dangerous feeling.   
\---

One evening, he and Thoas crossed paths again. Patroclus hoped his neighbor had come around. He and Thoas had always looked out for each other - it would be a shame for things to change between them now. 

Thoas spotted Patroclus and stopped in front of his house, hesitating a little. The uncertain look on his face was what made Patroclus decide to approach. 

“Well?” he started. “Still being an idiot?”

Thoas gave him a long look in return. “I don’t like when people lie to me.” His voice was tight and closed-off.

Patroclus sighed, he was too tired for this, really. “I have not lied to you.” 

Thoas pressed his lips together. “You seem to be getting by just fine. Where are you getting the money?”

“Usually I would say it’s none of your business, but as a matter of fact, I have my old job back.”

Thoas sneered, and Patroclus was taken aback at the raw contempt on the other man’s face. 

“Of course you do.” 

Patroclus frowned. “I do. If you don’t believe me, just come to the farm.”

Thoas started to laugh, a harsh, ugly sound. “My brother fucking died defending Locris from these animals, and you-” he pointed a finger at Patroclus - “have the nerve to make up stories about your so-called work?”

“I don’t know why I’m explaining myself to you,” Patroclus retorted.   
“I certainly don’t have to. You can believe what you want to believe, Thoas.”

He studied the other man. Thoas looked worse than he’d ever seen him. It wasn’t only his limp that was more severe than before, he was disheveled and he stank of sweat and days of unwashed body. He must have been worked half to death at the kitchen. It was a stark contrast to how Patroclus himself was. No matter how hard he had to work, Patroclus had always been able to take care of himself. Even when he was injured. Thoas had always lacked that sort of self-care. 

“You’re not … you _are_ doing alright, aren’t you?” Patroclus reluctantly voiced. 

This only made Thoas’ gaze darken, the barest hint of shame in his eyes.   
“Don’t pretend you care about me,” he hissed.

“Pretend? Well I suppose we can erase the past ten, fifteen years of our lives then. I’m just going to pretend we never helped each other when there was no food.” 

“It was your parents who helped me. They’d be ashamed of you now,” Thoas countered, and turned his back to go into his house. 

Patroclus recoiled as if he’d been struck. That stung. His parents … No. He could not let Thoas’ words get to him. He trudged back to the house, partly brokenhearted that he seemed to have lost a lifelong friend. Perhaps if he’d been gentler, tried to explain more. But Thoas was so intent on his beliefs about Patroclus’ time at Agamemnon’s house. Patroclus’ thoughts drifted to the group of soldiers who had cornered him, and felt a tinge of bitterness. He had struggled to protect himself, only to have a trusted friend rub salt in the wound. 

He got back into the house and placed his baskets on the floor. Sales had been diminishing. He worked the farm on most days, and the manual labor was more than he’d ever had to do before the war. He looked down at his hands, palms skinned and raw, the fingertips topped with blisters. They were nearly unrecognizable from before. He had gotten so skinny, too, feeling like there were years added to his body. 

Patroclus started when he caught sight of Achilles by the kitchen window. 

“Long day,” he managed, but his voice was weak. He watched as Achilles slowly approached, a small frown on his face. 

“Who was that?” Achilles asked. 

Patroclus froze as he realized Achilles meant Thoas. 

“I’ve seen him around before,” Achilles explained. 

“Nobody,” Patroclus mumbled. “His name’s Thoas.” He hadn’t felt this wretched in a while. 

Achilles fell silent, and Patroclus looked up at the other man.   
“We’ve been neighbors for most of our lives. It doesn’t matter, he hates me now.”

Achilles’ concern only deepened at the admission. He came closer, and without a word, slowly took Patroclus’ ruined hands in his, bending to press a kiss on each of them. 

Patroclus’ heartbeat faltered; he went still as he watched Achilles continue to press his mouth gently against each of his fingers. His eyes started to sting at the overt affection, the tender treatment of his wounds, both seen and unseen. He felt too small and exposed, and it was more than he could bear. 

“Achilles,” he said, and found he had no other words. 

Achilles’ hands were large and warm around his, and the touch alone lessened his own pains.  
It seemed ages, just the two of them like this. 

He kept his eyes shut tight, feeling the weight of the other man's forehead against his, the steady pounding in his chest ever-present. 

“You’re not afraid to feel something for me.”

Patroclus' eyes snapped open. “Of course I am,” he whispered.

Achilles shook his head, eyes bright, their gaze piercing right through Patroclus. “Then what is this?”

“It’s not possible,” Patroclus replied, remorseful.

“Yet you look at me like that.” 

“I’m not looking at you like anything,” Patroclus argued, but there was no real force to it. 

He brought his hands up to grasp Achilles’ face, and slowly stood on the tips of his toes so he could kiss his cheek. 

“You’re good to me,” he whispered, but could say no more. There were too many words, words Patroclus didn’t even know. He had kept them at bay so forcefully he didn’t think they could spill over even if he wanted them to. 

Achilles stood still and watched wordlessly as Patroclus retreated to his room, closing the door.


	8. Chapter 8

Achilles had left with a unit of soldiers to their next closest base in order to retrieve more supplies for the army. He did this often - since his arrival he’d gone at least three or four times. It was a short trip, but his absence still left a jarring emptiness in the house. 

Patroclus kept glancing at the door; a new thought coming to his mind, a new question he wanted to ask Achilles, a funny argument between Briseis and Meriones he wanted to recount. Then he would remember Achilles wouldn’t be home that night, and it made the mornings drearier, having to get up and start his work without the other man’s usual good morning smile. 

Nearly ten days passed, and Achilles still hadn’t returned. 

“He’s usually back by now,” Briseis mentioned.

Patroclus concentrated on the washing, the unease in his gut only increasing. 

Sometimes, soldiers who returned to base were unexpectedly recruited for other missions. It was a very real possibility that Achilles had simply been made to join another unit. It was also possible he wouldn’t return, if he was no longer needed in Pelion. Patroclus wrung his hands at the thought. What would he do if Achilles didn’t come back? Some of Achilles’ things were still in the house, but another soldier could stop by to collect them and send them off to Achilles’ new camp. 

He tried to imagine what it would be like, if the other man was gone for good. There would be no way of contacting him, he couldn’t simply waltz up to one of the imperial soldiers and ask them where First Lieutenant Chironides was. 

“He’ll be back,” he said to Briseis. “And if he isn’t … well, that’s that.” 

Briseis frowned at the words.   
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Present Day**

“I don’t know why I kept this all these years,” Mr. Pelides chuckles, smoothing out a browned piece of paper and handing it to Antilochus. 

The ink has nearly faded, but it is an imperial army doctor’s note. Antilochus traces his fingers over the print, the imperial stamp, and the barely legible scrawl of the doctor’s recommendations. 

“This belongs in a museum,” he murmurs, fascinated. 

“I found it one day, when I was sorting through the attic. Things looked so official back then, no?”

“What does it say?” Antilochus asks. 

“Recommendation to change bandages three times a day, from what I can remember. Prescription for painkillers.”

“What happened? Who needed this note?” 

“Ah …” Mr. Pelides squeezes his eyes shut, tapping the side of his head as if that will jog his memory. 

Antilochus has to ask again twice, because Mr. Pelides loses his train of thought so often. 

“The base!” he exclaimed.  
“There was a military base, a few hours from Locris, that had been preserved during the bombing. Well, it was attacked. Back then it was a huge shock, no one had really resorted to attacking the imperial army’s bases before. They weren’t prepared at all.”

Antilochus clicks his pen and gets ready to write in his notebook.   
“Go on.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Pelion**

Several units departed the village as reinforcements to the attacked military base outside Locris. It was a frantic time, the villagers both relieved that many soldiers were gone, and fearful that they would be subject to the soldiers’ vengeance once they returned. They didn’t know who had attacked the base. The majority of Pelinese soldiers were fighting alongside the Trojans on Achaian soil; the rest who had stayed had either been killed or taken as prisoners of war. 

The army was afraid that the attackers’ next goal was to target the village, so there was a strict curfew set every evening. No civilian was allowed anywhere near the village boundaries.   
\----

“Do you think we should make him a name stone?” Meriones asked one night. 

The abrupt question made Patroclus shiver with its underlying suggestion.  
“He’s Achaian,” he replied. “They don’t use them.” 

“But who’s going to remember his name if he doesn’t have a stone?”

“Achaians use grave markers,” Patroclus reminded Meriones.

“But what if they can’t find the body?” 

Patroclus had no answer to that. How many millions of Achaian soldiers lay unclaimed in foreign land, with no one to pay respects to them? It was why the Pelinese made name stones. He remembered when Thoas’ brother had made his, the day he left for the army at Locris. 

Meriones went into the bedroom and got out their parents’ stones. 

“Meriones,” Patroclus chided. “Put those back.”

“But look, we don’t have the right stone but we can use mother and father’s to measure a new one. How do you write his name?”

Patroclus was at a loss. He didn’t know how to write Achilles’ name. The realization weighed on him more than the thought that Achilles might have been killed in the attack. The officer had walked into his life one day, only to leave it suddenly with nothing to remember him by. Only his face, the faint scent of gun oil and tobacco, and the feeling of his lips on Patroclus’ skin. 

“We learned some Achaian writing in school,” Briseis offered, noticing Patroclus’ disquiet.   
She went into the bedroom to rummage through her things.   
“Here, let me see if I can get the letters right.”

Patroclus tried to object, but seeing the way Meriones carefully cut out a rectangle from the rocks outside, using their parents’ as a guide, and Briseis leafing through her Achaian textbooks to find the letters to spell Achilles’ name … he found that he couldn’t.   
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It was the middle of the night when the noise of the army’s trucks entering the village woke everyone up. Several of the wounded were transported to the medic bay. A unit of soldiers knocked on villagers’ houses to recruit them for assisting the physicians and nurses at work. Patroclus went outside the house to volunteer, but was roughly pushed back in by the soldiers, who had gathered more than enough recruits. 

Several hours passed and Patroclus sat in the kitchen, unable to go back to bed like Briseis and Meriones had. No matter how hard he tried, he could not quiet his thoughts. He kept hearing Achilles’ voice, kept going back to those moments when they sat up late at night together. He imagined that faraway look in the officer’s eyes when he spoke of Achaia, the upwards turn of his lips when he found something amusing. When had he memorized every little expression? They blurred together in his mind, and he wondered if they were there for good. A lasting print that the officer had made, stored away until they were now a part of him too.   
\----------------------------------------------------------

The sound of footsteps outside the house made him leap up and throw open the door, even though it was dangerous to do so at this hour. 

He paused on the threshold, fingers gripping the frame. He could cry out, could feel the terrible weight easing off, finally. Achilles leaned against the doorway, looking worn out but in one piece. His uniform was covered in dirt, and he wore his jacket flung over his shoulders. 

“You weren’t worried about me, were you?” he murmured, managing a grim smile. 

Patroclus could only wrap his arms around Achilles, burying his face in his chest. 

Achilles held him gently, then very carefully steered him away, wincing. 

“I was grazed by a bullet,” he said, lifting his jacket away from his shoulder so Patroclus could see the dressed wound. 

“You’re hurt,” Patroclus frowned. “Shouldn’t you be in the medic bay?” 

“It’s not a serious enough injury.” Achilles reached into his pocket with some difficulty and got out a crumpled piece of paper, waving it at Patroclus.   
“I made Dr Asclepiades write me a note.” 

He stumbled over to his room, Patroclus taking one of his arms to support him. 

“You really are going to be alright?” Patroclus worried, helping Achilles position himself on the bed. 

“I got some stitches, but Dr. Asclepiades says I was lucky. Could have been a lot worse.” Achilles kicked off his boots. 

Patroclus couldn’t move, watching Achilles’ carefree actions and the ease of his expression. He’d thought … he’d really thought he wouldn’t see this again. 

“Hey,” said Achilles, biting his lip in concern. 

Patroclus realized he was close to tears. He took a deep breath, one that he hadn’t been able to take since news of the attack came. 

Achilles brought a hand up to stroke Patroclus’ face.   
“There’s nothing to worry about anymore, Patroclus. I really am alright.” 

Achilles pulled back his shirt to show Patroclus the bandage, which covered part of his shoulder and upper arm, clean and white.  
“See? It wasn’t much at all.” 

But the sight only made Patroclus feel worse, seeing how very nearly it could have been a life-threatening wound. 

“What do you need?” Patroclus asked, softly.

Achilles jerked his head towards his pack in the corner.   
“I should probably change into some clean clothes. And -” he grimaced down at himself.   
“Probably a sponge bath too.”

“I’ll get everything. Stay here.”

“You don’t have to-”

“No.” Patroclus pressed a hand to Achilles’ lips. “Stay here.”  
\---  
A few minutes later he made Achilles sit on a stool, taking his dirty clothes and leaving them in a pile in the corner. Achilles showed no hesitation, not at all bothered by his nudity. When he was clean, Patroclus helped him into his clothes, taking care to get his shirt on without moving his injured shoulder. 

“Thank you, Patroclus,” Achilles murmured, laying a hand on Patroclus’ shoulder. Patroclus took the bucket of water away, wordless. 

“Wait. You’re not upset with me, are you?”

“Why would I be upset with you?” Patroclus reluctantly met Achilles’ gaze. 

“Because if I had … if anything had happened, well, we wouldn’t have a chance to say goodbye.” Achilles’ expression was earnest. Patroclus would never understand where Achilles got this courage from. The other man had a way about him, his honest words a struggle for any other person. This was a man who was unafraid of truth. 

“No, we wouldn’t have,” Patroclus agreed. He got up and left the room, returning to press something in Achilles’ hand. At Achilles’ puzzled expression, he said, “This is yours.”

Achilles held up the name stone, speckled grey and more rough around the edges than the smooth black stones of Patroclus’ parents. Meriones had struggled with it, but had finally gotten the final bit cut. On the surface were the letters of Achilles’ name, more scratchy than they should have been. 

There was full-fledged recognition in Achilles’ eyes, and Patroclus thought he could see the other man’s mind floating away, to the distant past.   
“My grandparents’ were made of wood,” he finally said. He gave Patroclus a watery smile, and held the name stone to his chest.

“Everyone should have one. Especially a soldier,” Patroclus added.  
A pause.  
“This is my goodbye. Keep it, and whether or not I’ll have a chance to say it, you’ll have it with you.”

Achilles’ answering gaze could have lasted forever. 

The way he looked just then, leaning back, the memories of lost loved ones in his eyes … Patroclus felt an ache in his chest, one he’d begun to notice recently, came up whenever he thought of Achilles. He imagined a hand around his heart, tugging and pulling, until the bloody organ was wrenched free. _Here it is_ , he wanted to say. _I have no use for it. Take it and keep it safe for me_.

Achilles caught his gaze and seemed to read his very thoughts.   
“I have no goodbye for you,” he voiced.   
“What will you have instead?”

This was a fight Patroclus could no longer endure. He had lost the battle long ago, in truth. What had he ever allowed himself? There was nothing in this world that was his alone. Nothing except this. 

He moved to straddle the other man, slowly, mindful of his injury. He felt Achilles’ hand stroke up his side, up his neck, and going around it to draw his face closer. 

“Are you going to kiss me, Patroclus?” Achilles asked, sounding teasing even though his face could not have been more grave. 

“I should have kissed you before you left. I won’t make that mistake again,” Patroclus replied. He pressed his mouth against Achilles’, gently, at first, and then harder as they deepened the kiss. He didn’t hold back, this time. Everything he felt, all the dread and longing and need - he poured it in, heated desperation finally allowed to take over. 

They broke apart for air, and then they were together again. He thought he wouldn’t ever get enough. The way Achilles tasted, the sound of his breathing, his nose poking the side of Patroclus’ face. All this he committed to memory.   
\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next night he slipped into Achilles’ room, greeted by the other man’s smile in the lamplight. They met each other like longtime lovers, the feeling of the other’s touch so familiar to them. Achilles lay on his uninjured side, running a hand up Patroclus' stomach and under his shirt, pressing kisses to his neck and face. 

This time they had was like a step into another dimension. The absolute quiet of the room, the pitch blackness of the night, broken only by the lone lamp beside the bed. Achilles himself was bathed in shadow when he looked at Patroclus, normally light eyes reflecting the lamplight. Patroclus felt dazed when he looked at him, there was a beauty in it he could never fully comprehend.

“I wonder what it will be like to love you,” Achilles murmured.

Patroclus met that steady gaze. He wondered too. He pulled Achilles against him, brought his mouth up to the other man’s ear.  
“You’ll have to let me know.” 

He felt Achilles’ hand tugging his shirt up, and sat up to help remove it. His skin was on fire, set alight by Achilles’ touch, by the soft wetness of the other man’s mouth kissing and sucking on his bare chest and stomach. He knew he was skin and bones, but Achilles kept on like it was all he desired. 

He stopped at the waistband, hooked his fingers into it, and gave Patroclus a questioning look. At Patroclus’ nod, he drew the trousers off, sliding them slowly down Patroclus’ legs, his lips immediately attaching themselves to the sensitive skin of Patroclus’ inner thigh. 

Patroclus lay back and watched Achilles as he moved back to discard his own clothes. When he had been bathing him, he’d kept his gaze distant, impersonal. But now he looked, allowing his gaze to roam over the other man’s naked skin, from the muscles in his back to the blonde hairs on his chest. Achilles manoeuvred himself carefully, still mindful of his shoulder.

Patroclus was about to say something when Achilles bent his head, taking Patroclus’ half-hard cock into his mouth. He made a small noise of encouragement at Patroclus’ startled gasp, moving to take more in, sucking firmly. There was so much pressure building in Patroclus’ lower body, he thought he would come right then. 

“Wait,” he breathed out. 

Achilles let go, sliding up to lean over Patroclus. “Everything alright?”

Patroclus wound his arms around Achilles’ back.   
“Kiss me,” he said, and closed his eyes as Achilles did so, wanting to feel the other man’s entire body attached to his, their hips rocking together slowly. He would lose himself in this, and he wanted Achilles with him.

Achilles took Patroclus’ hand and brought it to his own hardness, giving a soft sigh when Patroclus started to stroke him.   
“Do you want me inside you?” Achilles asked.

Patroclus bit his lip, feeling nervous all of a sudden. “I …”

At this hesitation, Achilles sat back and waited. “Whatever you want,” he said reassuringly.

“I want you,” Patroclus said. Heat rushed to his face.   
“But I’ve never had anyone,” he blurted out. 

There was a short silence as Achilles looked at him. Then he smiled.   
“I wouldn’t have guessed,” he remarked. “Not from the way you kiss me.”

“You do that to me,” Patroclus argued, but relaxed when Achilles chuckled, the unease falling away from him. 

“Stay there. I’ll be right back.” He was gone only a few minutes, a bottle of oil in his hand when he returned. 

He climbed onto the bed, took Patroclus by the hips and slid him towards himself. The eager movement made Patroclus laugh. 

Achilles poured himself a handful of oil and rubbed his fingers over Patroclus’ entrance, a silent question on his face. At no objection, he slid a finger in and moved it slowly, adding another only when Patroclus showed no sign of discomfort. Patroclus lay back, feeling Achilles’ fingers inside him. Achilles poured a liberal amount of oil into Patroclus’ hand and guided it to slick himself up, letting out a noise of satisfaction as Patroclus moved his hand over him, taking his time. 

“God, look at you, Patroclus,” Achilles groaned as he entered him slowly, pausing at the slightest hitch of breath. He covered Patroclus’ body with his own and kissed him, until Patroclus started to moan and grind his hips upward, wanting more. 

It stung, at first, but Patroclus made himself relax, unwound the tension in his legs. He wrapped them around Achilles’ waist and let himself feel as the other man fully seated himself inside him. 

“You’ll tell me if isn’t good,” Achilles muttered, panting slightly as he started to rock into Patroclus, ever so slowly. 

“Keep - keep moving,” Patroclus gasped, because it _did_ feel good; he didn’t think there was anything else like it. Achilles did as he said, going faster, wrapping a hand around Patroclus’ cock to stroke it in time to his thrusts. They moved together, nothing but the sounds of their breathing intermingled with each other.

And then - “I think you’re bleeding.” 

Patroclus put his hands on Achilles’ chest to push him back a little.   
“Achilles, I think you might have torn a stitch.” 

“I know,” Achilles gritted out. He continued fucking into Patroclus, not ceasing his stroking, and the pleasure built onto itself, becoming too much. Patroclus let out a hard breath as his body jerked, spilling into Achilles’ hand, feeling Achilles fall onto him, panting into his ear as he came too. 

They lay like that, sated and worn, until Achilles groaned and separated himself from Patroclus. They looked at the red drops on his bandage and couldn’t help laughing a little, then Patroclus was worried again and ran to get the first-aid kit. 

“I think you should probably be on top next time,” Achilles admitted.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violence.

Patroclus would wait until Briseis and Meriones were asleep, Achilles’ presence on the other side of the wall like a magnet with its own pull. They were quiet, but afterwards they lay together and talked, much like they had in the earlier days of their companionship. The nights spent in Achilles’ arms were like a balm to Patroclus’ soul; in the morning he left and barely remembered how the long work day went by, so anxious he was to be back with Achilles again. 

When they were together, they could forget where they were. They weren’t Patroclus and Achilles anymore; just two people, skin against skin, flushing the same red when a tender spot was kissed. And then when it was over, they were back to themselves; the horrors of the war around them faded into the background, and became more bearable as the day broke.  
\---

“Doesn’t it get stuffy, wearing that uniform all day?” Patroclus asked, watching Achilles get dressed before the sky lightened outside. He loved these quiet moments, laying back in bed under the covers, hearing Achilles wake up next to him. Feeling the other man press a sleepy kiss to his forehead, then cracking his eyes open to watch Achilles get dressed, movements practiced and precise. He would never get enough of him.

Achilles looked back at Patroclus and grinned, pulling on his boots.  
“You know, it really does. Nothing I can do about it, though. You’ll just have to take it off later.” 

Patroclus snorted and got up, pulling on his own clothes. He always got up this early now, to see Achilles out the door, and to make sure Briseis and Meriones did not awaken and realize he was in Achilles’ room. 

Achilles was already in the kitchen, filling his pack with food for the day. He slung it onto his shoulder and walked up to Patroclus, sliding his arms around his waist. Patroclus immediately shot a glance at Briseis’ and Meriones’ closed door, but there was no sign of movement. He relaxed and savored the feeling of Achilles kissing his neck, staving off the peculiar sensation of being pressed up against the other man in the kitchen, as though this was their normal. 

“Do you know what I’ll be thinking of today?” Achilles whispered, the brush of his lips tickling Patroclus’ ear. 

Patroclus gripped Achilles tighter.  
“What?”

“Making love to you when I come home.”

It made Patroclus smile.  
“Well, then, you’d better get back quick.”

Achilles bent his head and kissed Patroclus like the world depended on it, leaving him breathless when they parted. When he had gone, Patroclus found himself staring at the door, a sharp pull in his chest at the absence.

He put his hand to his face, feeling the heat there; put a hand to his chest even though he couldn’t feel the beat of his heart, only hear it pounding in his ears. The realization was clear as a bell’s toll in the silent dawn.

He _loved_ him.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Present Day**

They’re sitting on the front porch again, Mr. Pelides’ little radio playing a standard, the mellow notes drifting into the air. The wind blows softly on Antilochus’ face, making him sleepy. It’s dreary outside, they had been waiting out a storm so Antilochus could go home. 

He glances across at Mr. Pelides, who has fallen asleep in his chair. He takes out his notebook and leafs through it. All of the old man’s words. Antilochus reads over them obsessively every night, and he thinks he almost has it. The story. He hopes Mr. Pelides will be happy to see what he comes up with, if Mr. Pelides can even remember that he told a story at all. 

He’s drifting away, Antilochus knows. He doesn’t think they have much time left. But he looks at his notes, and he feels a sense of satisfaction that they’ve come this far. They’re so close, and he only wants to tell Mr. Pelides to hang on. 

_Hang on. I’ve got this._  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Pelion**

He didn’t know how they knew to find him here. Working in the farm everyday, it had been weeks since Patroclus saw a large group of soldiers like this. He felt his hands go numb, his feet itching to run, the moment he spotted the towering figure of the commander in the distance. Agamemnon. Here to claim him again. 

They approached, and he glanced at the farmhouse in a panic. Briseis and Meriones were inside, still working on repairs. He felt Agamemnon’s black gaze on him like a hawk watching its prey. The moments as they closed in on him were hazy as a dream, their figures silent and casting shadows in the hot afternoon sun. 

“It’s this one!” cried one soldier, looking to Agamemnon for confirmation. 

Agamemnon gave no reply, face a steely mask as the soldier grabbed Patroclus. 

“I haven’t done anything,” Patroclus announced, though he knew it was no use.  
He shot Agamemnon a glare.  
“Commander Menelaus let me go!” he cried out.

Agamemnon stalked towards him, unaffected by the words.  
He gripped Patroclus’ face, iron hold nearly crushing him.  
“You are under arrest. I strongly suggest against resistance.”

“Why?” Patroclus demanded, squirming against the soldier who had locked his arms behind his back. The soldier scowled at him and kicked his leg hard.  
“I want to know why before you take me away.”

Agamemnon considered this, Patroclus’ face still in his hand. He grabbed Patroclus by the hair and yanked his head back.  
“You are a sneaky little Pelinese worm,” he stated, monotonous voice barely a whisper. The quietness of it made the gooseflesh rise on Patroclus’ skin. 

“We know you have been spying for the Trojans. It’s over.” 

_What?_

“I’m not a spy,” Patroclus gasped out, disbelieving. “Wait, I’m telling the truth! I’m not -”

But his cries fell on deaf ears as he was dragged away, bound and gagged.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was brought to an abandoned house on the edge of the village. From the looks of it, the army had been using it as a makeshift prison. There were no other prisoners. People did not survive being captured by the army. Patroclus shivered in the small, dark, room, hearing the sounds of little feet scurrying in the corners. Rats. He’d heard that the soldiers sometimes left bodies to be eaten by them. He was there for what seemed like the whole day, and he imagined Achilles coming home to Briseis’ and Meriones’ tearful faces. 

His hands and feet were bound, the rope cutting into his skin. The soldiers had left him alone, but he could hear them outside. Every movement, every voice, fed his fear and anguish little by little. 

The door swung open and Agamemnon strode in. 

“We will make this easy,” he announced. 

“A confession.”

He slapped a bundle of papers onto the table, scraps, and waited. Patroclus was at a loss for what to do until he realized Agamemnon was referring to the papers. 

“I don’t know what they are.” 

A slow grin started to appear on Agamemnon’s face, his eyes gleaming in the low light of the room. 

“No?” He picked up a paper, waving it at Patroclus.  
“So you deny writing these letters?” 

“... Letters?”

Agamemnon threw the paper at him.  
“Perhaps I can jog your memory.” 

He reached into his pocket, bringing out a cigarette and a silver lighter. It had an engraving on it, recognizable as the emblem of the Trojans. Agamemnon lit his cigarette and took a deep drag. Then he drove the burning end onto Patroclus’ knee, grinding it harshly against the bare skin. 

The sound that came out of Patroclus’ mouth was animal. He didn’t think he had been capable of such a noise. 

“Only appropriate that you are burned by the Trojans, is it not?” Agamemnon commented, still smiling in satisfaction.  
“I am, of course, disappointed. I did take you into my house, after all. Who could have anticipated that you would write to our enemies? Requesting their help? Did nobody tell you? The Trojans do not help anyone but themselves.”

“I didn’t write any letters,” Patroclus voiced, even though his breathing was ragged from the pain.

“Do you know how many of our men died?” Agamemnon continued, as though he hadn’t spoken.  
The commander didn’t look the least bit fazed; he might as well have asked, _How much wood would a woodchuck chuck?_

“It’s a good thing we intercepted these when we did.” He nodded at the letters.  
“But we want to know how many of them went through, before the Trojans attacked our base.” 

Agamemnon reached down and traced Patroclus’ face with the cigarette end, making him jump and squirm against his bonds.  
“You have the answer. It is the only thing we want from you.” 

“I don’t know,” Patroclus tried again, even though it was useless.  
“Why would you think it was me?” 

Agamemnon frowned at him, almost in disappointment.  
“It must be hard when someone you trust betrays you,” he said, sounding nearly sympathetic.  
His voice hardened.  
“You can tell a lot about a man by the friends he chooses.” 

Patroclus studied the ground, knowing he was in really deep. There might not be an escape from this. The Achaian army needed no proof; if someone had accused Patroclus of writing the letters, he would be incriminated for it. He could tell Agamemnon he couldn’t write very well, let alone in Trojan, but what was the use? He wondered helplessly until his gaze landed on the letters. The paper was torn, sized irregularly like they had been taken from different books. Most people couldn’t afford paper, these days. 

And then he looked at the handwritten script and froze. 

“I really didn’t want this to be so difficult,” Agamemnon sighed.  
“But if you insist, I will just keep asking you until you break.” 

He took hold of Patroclus by the hair again. “You don’t look like you’ll last very long, but perhaps you’ll surprise me.” 

He put out the cigarette on the same spot he had burned Patroclus, earning another long, hollow scream. Patroclus bent his head, intent on keeping his tears at bay. He would not shed any for this man.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Agamemnon returned every day. Sometimes he came alone, other times he brought his men with him. They questioned Patroclus, again and again. How many letters had made it to the Trojans? What was in them? Who orchestrated the attack on the base? The words started to blur in Patroclus’ mind. The men beat him, when he couldn’t answer, but Agamemnon had other ways of punishment. The burning was only a glance on the surface of what he liked to do. 

At the end of the visits, Patroclus could hardly sit up, so the soldiers left him on the floor, not even bothering to keep him bound anymore. He was too weak to fight back, too weak to run from them. The stale air of his prison became precious to him, after hours of having his head held in a vat of water, over and over again. Agamemnon liked to get him nearly unconscious, even when the men cautioned that he could drown and they would lose him. 

“Don’t ruin it,” the commander would snap at them.  
“Again.” 

And Patroclus would try to quell his struggling, because it only made it worse. He had stopped shuddering when the rats scampered over his feet. The only thing that mattered to him was the few hours he had to sleep, to breathe, his only exit from this hell.  
\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He had learned to recognize the sound of Agamemnon’s footsteps. These were not the commander’s. It made Patroclus lift his head a little, cracking his eyes open to squint at the light let in by the open door. He thought he was dreaming at first, the three figures sliding into the room a vision he hadn’t allowed himself to think of for a while. 

“You’re not here,” he croaked, even though his tongue was heavy.  
“Go … run…” he closed his eyes again. 

He could hear his sister’s quiet sobs. He hated it when Briseis cried. Her tears fell on him.

“Patroclus,” she called, and her voice was so real he opened his eyes again and stared. 

Achilles was right behind her, looking grave and enraged at the same time, his hands on Meriones’ shoulders.  
“We can’t stay long,” he whispered, glancing at the door.  
“Menelaus is waiting outside. He owed me a favor.” He bit his lip, and Patroclus could see how hard he was restraining himself.

“Get them out,” Patroclus replied, hoarsely. He locked eyes with Achilles, willing the other man to understand him. 

Achilles nodded. “I brought them to say goodbye.”  
He gently nudged Meriones forward, and Patroclus had to close his eyes so he wouldn’t have to look at his brother’s expression. 

“What’s going to happen to us, Patroclus?” Meriones asked.  
His voice was shaky, but Patroclus knew he was trying his hardest to be brave.  
“Why do they think you did something? What did they do to you?”

So many questions. Questions he couldn’t answer. He tried to sit up, but slumped. Achilles rushed over to him and gathered him in his arms, and Patroclus nearly gave in to his emotions, feeling that comfort again. 

“Come here,” he said to Meriones.  
His brother leaped at him, burying his face in his chest. 

“It is very dangerous for you now. I don’t know what the soldiers will do. But I will not let anything happen to you. Do you understand, Meriones?” 

His brother nodded. “We’re going with Officer Achilles.”  
He swallowed.  
“Patroclus … are you going to come find us, later?”

Patroclus’ eyes welled up, then, but he forced back the tears. He found he could not answer. The words would not come. He looked at Achilles.  
“Tell me they will be safe. I gave you my trust long ago. Tell me … I am not giving it in vain.” 

“They will be out of here by nightfall,” Achilles whispered in his ear.  
“I will not tell you how, in case Agamemnon tortures it out of you when he finds out.”  
His hand traced the burn marks on Patroclus’ skin, trembling in barely concealed anger.  
“I will speak with Menelaus again. There must be some explanation for this.” 

Patroclus sighed, and turned to Briseis, who remained at his side, hands clamped over her mouth, she was sobbing so hard.  
“Briseis …” he said, and watched her squeeze her eyes shut at her name. 

“Why did you write the letters?” 

He felt Achilles stiffen, but the other man said nothing. 

“I’m -” she managed. “I’m s-so-” 

“Shh. It’s alright. Just tell me.” He reached out and put a hand on her arm, feeling her shake violently.  
“I need to know what happened.”

Briseis took a deep breath, until her sobs were under control. She wiped her tears away with the back of her hand.  
“It was when you were taken by that commander. I thought it was the only way. We didn’t know what to do, Patroclus! I … he knew someone, who could smuggle the letters to Trojan spies in the military base. He said they would help, once they had written testimony of exactly how Pelinese captives were enslaved-”

“He?” Patroclus breathed out. “Who’s he?”

“Thoas,” Briseis moaned.  
“He came round asking about you when he noticed you were gone. I told him what happened. He couldn’t write, so he said I had to do it. It was the only way. He _said_.”  
Briseis was starting to get a little hysterical. Patroclus rubbed her arm soothingly, shushing her again. 

“Why didn’t you tell me about this, Briseis?” 

“I didn’t think. Thoas said the letters never went through. He took them and said he would destroy them, just to be careful. And then you came home. You were safe.”  
She covered her face. “It’s all my fault.” 

_Thoas_. So that was how the army had found the letters. 

Patroclus felt something he hadn’t felt before, not even when the soldiers had appeared in the village, not even when he had witnessed them terrorizing the villagers. A deep, red-hot smouldering, like burning iron; a betrayal more painful than he’d thought was possible. Suddenly Thoas’ words made sense. His stubbornness, his refusal to believe. Thoas had never been anything but softspoken, timid in nature. His poisonous words had been so uncharacteristic. But Patroclus understood, now. The man had known Patroclus was not taken away by choice. He’d hated him for another reason, and done an unthinkable deed to punish him. Patroclus wondered how many times Thoas had seen him talking to Achilles. 

It didn’t matter. He’d already decided, the moment he had seen Briseis’ handwriting on the scraps of paper. He would confess. He had to, if Briseis and Meriones would get away safely without an Achaian manhunt after them. 

He took Briseis in his arms, and for a long moment just held her and Meriones. They had his love, but love would not keep them safe. Only hope could. Achilles was their only hope. 

“Don’t say it,” Briseis whispered. 

“I won’t,” Patroclus replied. 

But in his heart, the word rang out, like shards of glass in an empty chamber. _Goodbye_.

Achilles took them away, casting Patroclus a regretful glance. So much unsaid between them, in this borrowed time. But he knew Achilles needed no word from him. He’d given it to him that night. _Keep it, and whether I’ll have a chance to say it or not, you’ll have it with you_. 

“Stay alive for me,” Achilles whispered at him on his way out. 

Patroclus could only shake his head. Achilles didn’t know what he was about to do. Their footsteps were the last he heard of them, their shadows the last he saw. He savored the sight, all he had left of Briseis and Meriones.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Violence.

Agamemnon did not return. Patroclus lay in his cell, thinking he had been left to die there. Perhaps the rats really would eat him, after all. He found he couldn’t care. He was numb, bled dry, unable even to weep for Briseis and Meriones. He hoped they were long gone. If Achilles had their best interests in mind, he would send them to Troy. It was the only place that made sense. 

He could only be thankful, even if there was only one Achaian in the world like Achilles. If there was, he had been lucky enough to have gotten him. They had stolen time for themselves, and had none left.  
\----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Get up,” a soldier called, and Patroclus started from his sleep. He didn’t have the strength, but the soldiers dragged him up and out of the cell. He worked some spit into his mouth, tried to remember the words.

“I am ready to give my confession.”

“Shut up,” the first soldier said, slapping at him half-heartedly.  
“You’re to be released. Commander Menelaus’ orders.” 

Menelaus? He hadn’t thought about the man at all. Menelaus had let Achilles bring Briseis and Meriones to him. He’d owed Achilles a favor. Patroclus frowned, suddenly confused, the pieces swimming in his head. How had Achilles gotten Menelaus to do this, as well?

They brought him outside, having to hold him up as he put one foot in front of the other. The sunlight hit his face and glared into his eyes.

“I don’t understand,” he said.  
“I won’t be held responsible for the … letters?”

He didn’t think the soldiers heard him, he was speaking so softly. 

But one of them turned to him. 

“We already have a confession.” 

He pointed upwards, and Patroclus squinted in the direction, the sun glaring in his eyes. He waited till the glare subsided. The sight he was met with made him double over to retch. 

Thoas’ head was propped up on a flagpole, right in front of the prison. It was soiled, the hair a mess, but still instantly recognizable. The beheading must have been recent. 

“That’s what happens to traitors,” the soldier shrugged, as though engaging in small talk.  
“Glad it wasn’t you, eh?”  
He shoved Patroclus hard to make him keep walking. 

Patroclus felt a sinking in his gut, even though he should have been relieved. All of a sudden, he forgot about Thoas’ betrayal. The image of Thoas’ lifeless face, the horror of it, was stuck in his mind. 

“I don’t understand,” he whispered to himself, but the soldiers paid him no mind.  
\---  
They were halfway out of the compound when the soldiers stopped and saluted.  
Patroclus froze when he saw Agamemnon standing right in front of them. 

“Hand him over,” the commander ordered casually. 

“We have orders to escort him home, sir,” the first soldier replied.

“Oh really? Am I not of equal rank with Menelaus? Hand him over.”

“Sir …” the soldier hesitated. 

Patroclus stared at Agamemnon, directing all of his wrath and despair at the man. Agamemnon met his eyes, the usual dark gleam of his gaze taking over. 

“Do I have to tell you again, Lieutenant?” he questioned calmly, although the undercurrent of danger was clear. 

“I … no, sir. Just, let me inform Commander Menelaus.” 

Agamemnon lurched forward and grabbed Patroclus by the neck, yanking him out of the soldier’s grasp. 

Patroclus was about to resist, his hands going up to tear Agamemnon’s away, when the soldiers around them stiffened and stood at attention.

“What is it with you and this boy, Agamemnon?” Menelaus strolled into view, stance relaxed like he was on a leisurely walk. 

“I told you I would take him back,” Agamemnon hissed. “You will not stop me.” 

Patroclus could have sworn he saw Menelaus roll his eyes a little. 

“He really does such good work? You know, I did notice your shirts were much better pressed when he was with you.”  
Menelaus smiled a little, and on him it looked friendly.  
“Or do you just want to fuck him?”

Agamemnon recoiled, a look of disgust crossing his face. 

“No?” Menelaus glanced at his men and nodded at them. 

“Weren’t you supposed to be escorting Mr. Menoetiades home?” 

The soldiers looked at each other, confused and alarmed.  
“We were, sir,” the first soldier confirmed. 

“Good. As you were.” 

Agamemnon held onto Patroclus, not allowing the men to take him back. Patroclus felt like a sack of goods, being handed over left and right. 

“Fuck off, Menelaus.” Agamemnon’s voice was terse. 

Menelaus looked surprised.  
“No, thank you. Come now, brother. Don’t you think you’ve put this poor villager through enough?” 

“My men outnumber yours and you know it. I suggest you mind your own business.” 

Menelaus looked thoughtful then, glancing at Patroclus and the soldiers under his command.  
“Well, I suppose you’re not wrong there.” 

He gave Patroclus an apologetic look.  
“I’m afraid you’ll have to bear with it a little longer, Patroclus.”

He glanced back at Agamemnon.  
“Brother, I would speak with you tonight.” 

Agamemnon ignored Menelaus and beckoned his own men over to take Patroclus away. 

“I’ll be there tonight, Patroclus. Do not fear,” Menelaus whispered as Patroclus was led away again. 

Patroclus wasn’t sure whether to believe him or not, but suddenly found himself unafraid even as his arms were held back by Agamemnon’s men.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was made to wait in the sitting room of Agamemnon’s house. Agamemnon did not appear. Patroclus found himself fidgeting, wishing Menelaus would hurry up. He needed to hear from Achilles again, to make sure Briseis and Meriones were in the clear. Perhaps they could come back, now that Patroclus had been acquitted of the crime. His thoughts drifted to Thoas, then, and he allowed them to linger. He didn’t know if the man had deserved it. It was hard to justify a violent death, no matter what Thoas had done.

Menelaus arrived alone, when it grew dark. Agamemnon was holed up in his office. Patroclus didn’t know why Agamemnon hadn’t approached him at all. He had expected more violence, now that he knew exactly how far the commander could go. Somehow he felt that what he had endured in the cell didn’t even encompass everything the man was capable of doing.

They spoke together for a long time. At some point, Patroclus could hear Agamemnon’s cries of outrage. It was uncharacteristic of the man. It would be hard for Menelaus to convince him. Patroclus wondered why Menelaus bothered at all. 

At long last, Menelaus exited the room. He passed by Patroclus on his way out, but when Patroclus got up in hopes he could follow, Menelaus simply shook his head. 

Patroclus felt his heart sink.

“Wait,” Menelaus voiced, lifting a hand at Patroclus.  
He gave a small, grim smile, a silent request for Patroclus’ patience. And then he left, giving Patroclus no room to wonder at what had happened.  
\---  
It was dead silent for what felt like hours, even though Patroclus knew that wasn’t the case. He glanced at the door to Agamemnon’s office, his pulse quickening as the commander’s shadow could be seen moving beneath the door. He didn’t think he could bear it anymore. He was so lost, his siblings gone, Achilles’ whereabouts uncertain. 

At long last, the door creaked open. Agamemnon stood in the doorway and watched Patroclus, expression as unreadable as always. 

“Come here,” he ordered.

Patroclus got up and went to him. He knew better than to speak, but he had so many questions. Questions he knew Agamemnon would not answer. 

Agamemnon looked him up and down, gaze landing on the burn marks, which were still red and angry. He tilted Patroclus’ chin upwards with two fingers.

“Our teachings do not tell us much about what to do when something like this happens,” the commander started. His skin looked grey in the darkness of the office, he hadn’t bothered to switch on a light. 

“Burning. Drowning. It seems you can endure anything, doesn’t it?”

Patroclus frowned in confusion. What was he getting at?

“And yet, it wasn’t enough.” 

They stared at each other for a moment. 

“Perhaps I should defer to you to tell me what to do,” Agamemnon continued.  
“Tell me. What do you think is just?” 

“What -?” Patroclus searched Agamemnon’s eyes, searched for some trace of what the commander wanted. 

“I don’t know what you’re …” 

It clicked, then. 

The way Agamemnon was looking at him. It wasn’t about the letters. There was something that had caught him off guard. Patroclus could see the revulsion on Agamemnon’s face, underneath that tranquil mask. Agamemnon had found out about Patroclus and Achilles.

“Leave him alone,” Patroclus whispered. 

A cruel smile etched its way onto Agamemnon’s face.

“What makes you think I would do anything to him? He is one of our own.”

“You can do whatever you want to me,” Patroclus pleaded.  
“He did nothing wrong. He is … he is moral. It was me, I did it. I wanted him. It was all me.” 

Agamemnon lifted one shoulder, as if it was obvious.  
“Of course. I can hardly blame a son of Achaia, even if he errs in judgment.”

Patroclus had started to tremble.  
“You won’t do anything to him?”  
He wasn’t sure if he could believe Agamemnon. 

“You agree, then? To shoulder the blame?” 

“What does it matter?” Patroclus cried. “You have me, you can do anything you want.” 

Agamemnon’s face turned stony. “I want to hear it from you. That you will bear the consequences. First Lieutenant Chironides will not be absolved if you do not agree.” 

Patroclus was struck speechless. He hadn’t been wrong when he thought Agamemnon a madman. The man was a true fanatic, the kind of mindless believer whose every action could only be traced to his distorted judgment. It made sense. Agamemnon’s obsession with taking Patroclus away. He’d wanted Patroclus close by, but he’d never touched him, except in violence. It went against the principles he lived by. 

Patroclus thought back to Menelaus’ words, and felt sick to his stomach. 

It was one thing to rape the people they held captive. Power over their enemies was one thing. But to desire them - it was a sin in the eyes of Achaian morality. A sin in Agamemnon’s eyes. 

“He never wanted me,” Patroclus continued to plead. “He only felt sorry for me, that was all.” 

“I do not doubt it,” Agamemnon agreed. 

“I’ll do it. I’ll … bear the consequences.”

Agamemnon’s answering smile was cold as a crypt.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He was taken to the square. Agamemnon did not touch him again, only signalled to his men to tie Patroclus to the wooden post. He forced himself to look ahead. It was the middle of the night, but the lamps in the square provided light. Nobody was around except the soldiers who had come to see this. Patroclus silently gave thanks that Briseis and Meriones were gone, would never hear of this. But Achilles would. 

He was surprised it went on for as long as it did without him passing out. The sound of the whip cracking against pavement nearly deafened him, but he willed himself not to flinch. When the first blow came down upon his naked back, he thought he could see stars, the edges of his vision bright and dark at the same time. 

Blow after blow. His back would be nothing, when it was done. 

He didn’t even know how loud he screamed, except that his throat was nothing but dry ashes. He thought he might have lost his voice. He was half awake, half dead. There was a story from a faraway land about a woman like that. He felt like her now. 

“Commander, he is unconscious.” The voice sounded very far away. 

“Agamemnon.” 

Another voice. 

“Enough. The hundred and fifty lashes are up.” 

Sounds of struggling. 

“It is done,” the voice barked.  
“Whether he lives or dies, the number remains the same.” 

Patroclus felt someone untie his hands from the post.

“Take him to the infirmary. If he dies, burn the body.” 

He had no voice to cry out as hands grazed his skin, placing him on a stretcher. He could only scream in his mind.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He woke up in agony, legs thrashing. A voice shushed him, hands holding down his legs to stop the movement. 

“Stop. You will worsen it if you move.” 

He recognized the voice. Dr. Asclepiades leaned into his view. The man placed a soothing hand on Patroclus’ arm.  
“No movement,” he said. “Just lay still. You are not infected, and I intend to keep it that way.” 

Patroclus lay on his stomach. “W-” he croaked. “Wa…”

Dr. Asclepiades wordlessly held a cup with a straw to Patroclus’ lips.  
“Here. Drink.” 

Patroclus slurped up the water. His voice slowly returned. He could not help the short wails when Dr. Asclepiades continued dressing his back. 

“My god, Pelinese. I’m starting to think it would have been a mercy if you hadn’t survived it.” His voice was hushed. 

“A-Achilles?”

“Cast him from your mind. He is forbidden from seeing you.”

“ … live?”

Dr. Asclepiades nodded. “He will be demoted, most likely. But the commander cannot act against him when he has already given you the lashes.” 

Patroclus made a small questioning noise. 

“It is the punishment for a soldier’s greatest crime. Usually reserved for deserters or traitors. They cannot execute a soldier without a proper trial in the mainland. So one hundred and fifty lashes was long ago determined as the correct number for a man to be whipped to death, without calling it that.” 

Patroclus closed his eyes, quailing at the thought that Agamemnon would have exacted this punishment on Achilles if he hadn’t agreed. 

“Insane,” he whispered. 

Dr. Asclepiades eyed him. “Perhaps now you understand how the Achaians have run the world for the past few years. A regime run by madmen is a regime without fear.” 

Patroclus sighed and let his exhaustion consume him. He was in too much pain to fall asleep completely, even when Dr. Asclepiades gave him a draught.  
\---  
He thought only several hours passed, but it must have been several days. He was starting to feel more clear-headed, even though he couldn’t move, and the smell from his wounds was making him sick. 

He heard someone enter the medic’s tent, and twisted his head. The bile in his stomach churned when he saw who it was. 

“Dr. Asclepiades says you will live,” Menelaus remarked. He stood over Patroclus, arms crossed, but as always he did not cut an intimidating figure. Patroclus knew better. 

Menelaus tutted as his gaze roamed over Patroclus’ back. “It is rare, even for a soldier to survive what my brother did. I must admit I admire your strength.”

“How could you let this happen?” Patroclus whispered. 

It almost seemed like Menelaus would not answer, from the silence that had stretched between them. 

“I know I said I would help you. Well, think about this. Once you are fully recovered, you are free to go home. You will not be disturbed again.”

Patroclus felt the first flames of rage at the casual words. 

“I want you to know that I am not like him. I don’t necessarily believe in …” Menelaus waved a hand. “All this. It is a means to an end.”

He could have strangled the man, if he was able to move. 

“Of course, that doesn’t mean I would have placed myself in First Lieutenant Chironides’ position. Curious, though. I didn’t think he had it in him.”

Patroclus stared at Menelaus’ gentle, unassuming face, and felt a hatred that would have made his anger at Thoas pale in comparison. 

“You told him about me and Achilles.” 

Menelaus didn’t answer, but his look was enough. 

“Why all this pretending? Why pretend you wanted to help me at all? You knew what Agamemnon would do.” 

Menelaus tilted his head to one side and studied Patroclus with his intelligent eyes. 

“I never meant you any harm, Patroclus. I do want you to know that. I simply had to do what I had to do. You of all people should understand. Didn’t you do the same, when you made your siblings escape?”

Patroclus was shocked into silence. So that was how Menelaus had known. 

“Were you lying, when you tried to stop Agamemnon from taking me a second time?”

Menelaus smiled sadly and shook his head. “I never lied to you, Patroclus. I did want to get you home. I was going to convince Agamemnon that very night.”

“And then you left and found out my brother and sister were gone.” 

Menelaus nodded, looking pleased that Patroclus was connecting the dots. 

“I couldn’t imagine why Chironides helped them escape. Of course, it was easy enough to figure out. He did ask me for permission to bring them to you, saying he could find answers for the letters. And then they were gone. There is no way out, you know. One has to have the aid of someone in the army, for any hope of escaping.” 

“You didn’t tell Agamemnon anything about Briseis and Meriones.”

Silence. 

“He wouldn’t have cared,” Patroclus realized.  
“You knew what would make him angrier. So you told him about me and Achilles instead.” 

“You know, I think you would have made a fine Achaian soldier. It is unfortunate you were born on the other side.” 

“You wanted this to happen to me,” Patroclus let out an angry breath.  
“Why?”

“I did say I never meant you harm. It wasn’t personal,” Menelaus replied, and his earnest expression, as hateful as it was, remained sincere. 

Patroclus breathed in sharply, the thoughts swimming in his head. Menelaus waited patiently, as though watching Patroclus come to his own conclusions was a pleasant game. 

“Agamemnon,” Patroclus started. “You’ve been toying with him from the start.”

At Menelaus’ agreeable silence, he continued.

“From the very first day,” Patroclus discerned.  
“When you stopped him from taking Briseis … you knew he would hold a grudge against me. It festered for a while, until he took me. And then, you let me go. You knew it would anger him even more. You did it again when you tried to stop him from taking me after I was released. But you saw a better chance with Achilles. It was the final push. He really did go to the extreme, then. I would have died. But even if I didn’t, he’d still have whipped me to near-death.” 

Patroclus paused, trying to sort it all out in his head. 

“Is it because you hate him? You hate your brother?” 

Menelaus shook his head, eyes bright as though someone had given him a longed-for present. 

“You were doing so well, Patroclus! But I’m afraid you’ve missed the mark. Hate has nothing to do with it.” 

Patroclus could think of no other reason. Why did Menelaus want to manipulate Agamemnon? What possible advantage could he have if his brother went unhinged? Achaian commanders did not suffer repercussions for their actions, not when they had brought victory to their country. Unless … 

“The attack on the base …” Patroclus watched as Menelaus’ attentive expression returned.  
“The letters … the Trojan spies who received them. It was all you.”

“I hope you don’t think I involved your sister on purpose. I wasn’t lying when I said I wouldn’t allow harm to a child. I didn’t anticipate what poor Thoas would do. Of course, I should have guessed he didn’t know how to write.” 

“Why ask him to do it at all?” 

“It wouldn’t be any fun if I gave you all the answers.”

“ … It would be impossible to trace it back to you. And Thoas was my neighbor. You thought he would be desperate to help me by contacting the Trojans.”

“Yes. I did not anticipate that he harbored such … contempt towards you. It should have been another clue about your affair with Chironides, but I admit I was more surprised than anything that he turned the letters in and accused you of writing them.”

“But it worked to your advantage, didn’t it? With me under arrest, Agamemnon had more opportunities …” 

Patroclus felt a chill down his spine. He looked up at Menelaus. 

“Will the Trojans take Pelion City?” 

Menelaus gave Patroclus a level look. 

“A very competent soldier, indeed,” he said, softly. 

“You haven’t just been toying with Agamemnon … you’ve been collecting proof. Achaia is going to fall to the Trojans, and someone has to be blamed for the war crimes.”

Menelaus only smiled, inclining his head a little in a show of respect. 

“I don’t hate my brother,” he acknowledged.  
“But someone will have to take the fall. And why not him? Do you know how many people he has tortured and raped? I have never laid a hand against a conquered native, enemy or not. Why should I have to fall with him?” 

“But … he will be executed.” 

Menelaus sighed. “We fight for the greater good. Even when we fail. There is always the bigger picture.” 

“I thought the Empire was powerful.” 

“Once. But an Empire can only run so long in the hands of men like my brother. The Trojans know it.”

“What’s better, then? Men like you?”

“I think you and Chironides are a good match for each other. I certainly wish you well. But it won’t matter, once we are in the hands of the Trojans.” 

“Wait,” Patroclus called, when Menelaus moved to leave the tent. 

“ … I hope you get to see your daughter again.” 

Menelaus looked over his shoulder.  
“Goodbye, Patroclus Menoetiades. I will remember your name.”  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Pelinese,” a whisper, and a hand gently patting him awake. 

“Hmm?” Patroclus cracked open his eyes to meet Dr. Asclepiades’ urgent look. 

“Come,” the doctor said. “This is going to hurt like a motherfucker,” he warned.

“Wha-? What’s happening?” Patroclus cringed and opened his mouth in a silent scream as the doctor lifted him off the bed. 

“Normally I would advise against this, but we must hurry.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“You will see soon enough.” 

The doctor draped a blanket over him and carried him out of the tent. Patroclus could feel the night air flapping against the cover. His body burned in agony at every movement, the doctor’s arms around him like two flaming rods. He bit his lip, willing no sound to come out. 

He was placed in a dark space, and the doctor hastily started piling objects on top of him. 

“What’s going on?” Patroclus hissed. 

“Quiet!” the doctor snapped back. “Everything depends on you not being seen.” 

Patroclus lifted the edge of the blanket, but Dr. Asclepiades slapped his hand away. He felt the doctor jump in beside him and settle his weight against Patroclus. The sound of an engine ran, and they started to move. So they were in a truck. A medical supply truck. 

“Was this how he got Briseis and Meriones through?” Patroclus whispered. 

Dr. Asclepiades didn’t answer.

“You helped, then, too?”

“If you don’t shut up soon …”

“Thank you.”

The ride put Agamemnon’s torture to shame. Patroclus’ eyes were full of tears by the time the truck stopped. He heard Dr. Asclepiades get out, some voices outside, and then silence. He didn’t know how long he lay there, until footsteps approached and the burning rods were back again, arms around him lifting him out of the truck. 

“We will not see each other again,” Dr. Asclepiades whispered. 

Patroclus heard him panting slightly, it seemed a long walk. They kept on until Patroclus could hear the sound of running water. How far were they from the village, to be near a river? Finally, he was set down on soft ground, leaves and grass cushioning him. 

The blanket was pulled back, and it was so dark he couldn’t make out the dark shape above him. 

But he knew who it was. He let a tear trickle down, just once. 

“We’re not going to make it,” he said, sadly. 

“We will.” The voice he had missed so much, speaking low in his ear. 

“How? They’ll come after us.”

“No one will come after us. I have made sure of it.”

“But Menelaus … he knows all about it.”

“I know, darling. Why do you think he is letting us go?” 

Patroclus frowned. Menelaus’ parting words to him … 

“We have to hurry, while the water is low.”

Patroclus could only lie in shocked silence. 

“You mean for us to _swim_?”

He felt Achilles chuckle in his ear.  
“ _I_ will swim. You have only to hold on to me.”

“I cannot move, Achilles. It will be too much for you. We will both drown.” 

Achilles' hands were around his face then, running through his hair.  
“I will not let you drown. Hold on to me. You’ve survived the whip.” His tone darkened at the mention of it.  
“You will survive this too.”

“You are chasing after an impossible dream,” Patroclus murmured, voice cracked with helplessness. 

“No such thing. Any life I could have with you is worth chasing.” 

Achilles stroked Patroclus’ face and kissed him slowly. 

“What did you tell Menelaus?” Patroclus asked. “How could he have agreed?”

Achilles laughed, and this time it was bitter. 

“Menelaus has made sure of Achaia’s defeat by the Trojans. He sold his soul a long time ago. Do you really think he cares if a First Lieutenant and a Pelinese villager try to escape?”

“When did you find out?” Patroclus questioned, curious. 

“Patroclus, we really must go.”

“No. I want to know.”

He heard Achilles sigh.  
“I knew there was something wrong when you said he let you go. And then … well, he was the only one who could have possibly known about Briseis and Meriones.” 

Patroclus slowly brought his arms up, painful as it was, to circle them around Achilles’ neck. 

“Are we wrong? Are we wrong to leave just like this, knowing what we know?” 

Achilles leaned his head against Patroclus’ forehead.  
“You’re asking the wrong person,” he admitted, much like he had the last time, when Patroclus had asked if he was any better than a traitor.

“I think I have given enough of myself. I will give no more.” 

“But Achilles …”

“I love you,” Achilles whispered, thumb brushing away the tears on Patroclus’ cheek.  
“Let me give myself to you, instead.”

The water was chest deep, and cold as ice, when they finally waded in. Patroclus held on to Achilles, even when he couldn’t feel his hands anymore, the river washing away everything of the past few days. If they died in the river, they would die together, finally free of the past. He thought of Briseis and Meriones, hoping to see them on the other side.


	11. Chapter 11

The house is empty. He doesn’t know why he’s standing here, looking from the opposite side of the road. He imagines two figures sitting on the front porch, the months he’s spent listening to the old man’s thoughts.

He knows Mr. Pelides isn’t here. In a way, he’s afraid to go. He doesn’t know what he’ll see when he gets to the nursing home. It’s been a few weeks since he’s seen the old man. They’ve talked on the phone a few times. Mr. Pelides seems to recognize his voice, but can’t remember who he is. They’ve formed a bond, and thinking of those threads unraveling fills Antilochus with an unnameable emptiness. 

Eventually, he gathers up his courage. He promised to visit in his last phone call. He has the story ready. He’s spent the last few weeks burning the midnight oil, writing and writing, hoping it is enough. It’s consumed his thoughts so much that he dreams of it.  
\----------------------------------------------------------

He pulls up in front of the large grey building. He doesn’t know what he was expecting, a prison, maybe; but this doesn’t look too bad. He walks inside up to the front desk. The young receptionist smiles at him and points him in the direction of the dementia care unit when he asks. He gets lost anyway, but after some stumbling around, he comes across a sitting room with several elderly people. Some are being wheeled around by nurses, slumped and inactive. Others are lounging around, watching TV or looking out the window. 

These are people who have been forgotten, Antilochus can’t help thinking. The bubble of nerves in his stomach only gets larger the further he walks into the room. He won’t let that happen to Mr. Pelides. The old man will not be forgotten.

He lingers for a while, scanning the faces. He thinks Mr. Pelides isn’t in the room at first, but then he spots an old man sitting by the window, a cd player next to him emanating a soft oldies tune. 

Antilochus hesitantly approaches, clutching the little radio he’s brought from the house. He thinks the old man would much prefer it, as crackly and worn as it is. 

Mr. Pelides catches sight of him and starts. There’s an affectionate grin on his face as he tries to stand up.

“Antilochus!” he cries. “Oh, you’ve finally come to see me! I was waiting.”

Antilochus feels an ache in his chest. He hasn’t thought this would happen again. All these months, their entire conversations, and the old man has only recognized him three times. This makes a fourth. 

“Hi, Grandpa,” he smiles, fighting off the sadness he feels, because he is happy too. This has made his day. 

His grandfather takes him into his arms and he hugs him back, so tight. He’s missed this, even though they’ve practically spent every single day together for a while.  
\------------

_The diagnosis had wrecked them. Antilochus had tried to talk to his mother about it, but she was inconsolable. Grandpa had been having memory problems for a while, but this? He would forget them. He would forget himself. When enough time had passed, he would lose all sense of his identity._

_His mother had nearly put herself in debt trying to pay for all the neurologist visits. Grandpa didn’t have health insurance. It was a cruel irony, considering he’d once been the most prolific journalist for the Trojan Times, had traveled the world and stunned people with his stories of harsh truths and human connection. When Antilochus had taken his first journalism class in university, the professor had cited his grandfather’s name. The man who’d kickstarted the very first refugee movement in Troy. An unsung hero, unacknowledged for his accomplishments until he’d retired._

_It didn’t matter now. When the Times started to collapse, they’d cut off a large portion of their team. They’d been unable to cover the pensions of many of their former employees. Grandpa had lost nearly everything, except his house and the savings he already had._

_Antilochus had always wanted to be like him. Most of their relatives had stayed away, afraid of what they’d find while grandpa slowly deteriorated. Antilochus didn’t care. He loved his grandfather more than anything in the world, and he would see him everyday while they could still talk together._

_One day, grandpa had started rambling about his reporter days at the Times. He wouldn’t stop talking about the article for days._

The article, _the one that had nearly ended his career._

_Antilochus had searched in every library, every website, but could not find it. Many of the Times’ old stories had been lost._

_That was when he’d gotten the idea. He would just have to start playing along. He’d arrived at grandpa’s house one day, swallowed the hurt at feeling like a stranger._

_“Good afternoon, Mr. Pelides. I’m here from the Times,” he’d said, putting on his best reporter’s voice._

_He’d spent the whole summer recreating his grandfather’s story, in hopes that it could hold a candle to the one that had been published decades ago. The one that had meant so much to the old man. Anything. Anything to bring his grandfather back, even just for a moment._

And here he is now, no longer forgotten. He doesn’t care if it is the last time the old man knows him, because there was always love, even when they were nothing but two men sharing their knowledge of the past. Antilochus has learned something of his grandfather’s life that he’d never known, and it will live on in him.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Troy, 1945**

The heater wasn’t working again. It was the dead of winter, and Trojan winters … they were the worst, especially in this part of the country. Achilles knew Patroclus wasn’t used to the cold. They’d been living in this apartment for the better part of a year now, after being turned away from so many. They were always on the move, and it had really taken a toll on Patroclus. Achilles didn’t think he could stay up another night listening to Patroclus’ shaky breaths, each one more frail than the last. 

Patroclus had never really recovered from their journey across the river. His wounds from the lashes had gotten infected, and afterwards he’d caught a fever so harsh he’d been in bed unable to wake up for days. Achilles had thought he would lose him then. 

But Patroclus always got up again. Achilles just didn’t know if one day … he wouldn’t. It was his greatest fear. 

He came home after midnight from his job at the mine. The black soot stained his skin, so that he never felt clean anymore. Yet, Patroclus would sit up with him next to the tub, no matter how ill he was, and patiently scrub the grime off. He didn’t know what he would do without Patroclus. 

He went past the main entrance, past the list of apartments next to the buzzer. _Apartment 4, A. Pelides_ marked theirs. There was so much hatred for Achaians in Troy since the war ended, their lives depended on no one finding out who Achilles was. They lived in a largely Messenian community, mostly tolerable towards refugees, but there was always the occasional hostile glare. 

A smile crossed his face when he entered to see Patroclus at the kitchen table, practicing his writing. Patroclus couldn’t speak a word of Trojan, but slowly, he’d started to learn. He’d panicked when he realized his parents’ name stones were abandoned when they left Pelion, and had spent most of his days writing the names over and over again, afraid to forget. 

Achilles walked up to Patroclus and kissed him on the forehead, heart warmed by Patroclus’ answering hum. 

“Tomorrow’s my day off,” Achilles said. “Should we look?” 

They’d been searching for the past three years. Any sign of Briseis and Meriones. When they’d arrived at Troy, they’d spent everything they had journeying to the refugee camp in the mountains where Achilles had instructed the children to go; but when they got there, Briseis and Meriones were nowhere to be found. Since then, they’d been retracing the steps, looking for any possibilities of where Patroclus’ siblings had ended up. 

“Actually,” Patroclus said, glancing at Achilles sheepishly.  
“I’m going to work.”

Achilles stilled, quieting the distress arising inside him.  
“All the times we’ve discussed this -” he started, but Patroclus shook his head.

He had that look on his face, the one that invited no argument. 

“They’ve raised the rent again.”

Achilles palmed his face, sighing. _Of course_. This happened all the time. The building was owned by greedy Messenians, who wanted to milk the refugees of everything they had. Between their living expenses, Patroclus’ medical bills, and the manhunt for runaway Achaian soldiers … Troy was a harsh reality that had hit them full-force the minute they’d arrived on its soil.

“Where?” Achilles asked.

“The sundry shop across the street. It’s only part-time.” Patroclus wound his arms around Achilles’ neck, pressing their foreheads together. 

“I promise I’ll be careful. I won’t overexert myself.” 

They shared a long look. Achilles could have refused, and Patroclus would have respected his wishes, albeit grudgingly, but he knew - they really needed the money. 

“Will it ever end?” He asked this question every day, and Patroclus always gave the same answer. 

Patroclus tucked Achilles’ hair behind his ear and kissed him softly.  
“You told me once we’d see the big bands play. We’ll wait for it, Achilles. I wouldn’t want to see them without you anyway.”

Achilles looked at Patroclus then, at his sunken eyes and hollow cheeks, the mark of how ill his health had gotten. He glanced at the writing on the table, the painstaking effort of tremulous fingers and an iron will. 

The most precious things in Achilles’ world. 

“We might never see it,” he said.

They would never see the big bands play, he knew. But these moments after dark, nothing but each other - it was enough. He could already hear the faint notes of the music playing, sense the walls around them fading away. He’d once liked to talk of these things; _dreams_ \- but the truth was, he didn’t need them anymore. Once Patroclus was his, it had always been enough.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Present Day**

He’s here to collect some of grandpa’s things, to make him more comfortable. The nursing home doesn’t allow a lot of stuff, but Antilochus knows exactly what to bring. He walks around the house, the empty cardboard box in his hands. He gravitates to the mantelpiece, as always. He knows grandpa will want the photographs. He hovers, struggling to choose.

He decides on a couple, one of grandpa with Antilochus’ mother as a little girl; the other of the whole family when Grandma Iphigenia was still alive. Antilochus himself is in that picture, shy and hiding behind his mother. 

He goes to the family shrine in the corner and collects the name stones; the grey speckled one that isn’t at all like the others, and the smooth, polished black ones for the rest of the family. They don’t practice the Pelinese religion, but the name stones were always important to grandpa. 

He decides to include the old recipe for Meriones’ cake. Grandpa had made it every year, in memory of the lost brother. He won’t be doing any baking in the nursing home, but Antilochus thinks the misspelled handwriting will bring him comfort. 

He takes one last look around the house. There is one other thing he would like to add to the box, but he’ll have to make do with something else for now.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Thanks for meeting with me,” Antilochus says, trailing after the other man’s rapid stride. 

Astyanax turns and stops to let Antilochus catch up with him. “It’s no problem,” he sighs. 

“I, um … you must be very busy.” 

Antilochus looks around them. The Trojan Times are done. They’re in the process of liquidation, and he can clearly see the stress lines on the editor-in-chief’s face. 

“Not too busy. I did ask you here, after all.” Astyanax flashes a white smile. 

Antilochus remembers his early university days, how he had spent a good amount of time staring at the other man. He doesn’t think Astyanax remembers him. Of course, they’d only had two or three classes together. Being the son of Hector Priamides, arguably the greatest editor-in-chief of the Times’ Golden Age, Astyanax had been destined to follow in his father’s footsteps. 

“So … I take it you’re not offering me a job here?” 

Astyanax laughs. “No.” 

He motions for Antilochus to enter his office. 

“I reviewed the collection of essays you sent in last year. I apologize that it took me so long. I’m not usually the one to review portfolios. But I saw it was you. I remembered you were always such a talented writer.” 

So Astyanax _does_ remember him. Antilochus flushes. 

“You see, I’m starting a magazine. It’s going to be primarily online, but I think it can really reach readers in this day and age. I’m not keen on making the same mistakes that brought this company to the ground.”

“So this _is_ a job interview.” 

“No, it’s an offer. I want you to join my team of writers. I think you could bring something to the magazine that we’re currently missing. We’re already working on a first issue. What do you say?”

Antilochus is speechless. 

“You were really - that impressed by the essays?” 

Astyanax studies him.  
“There is one thing that is important to me as a journalist. That we, as writers, dedicate our lives to finding the truth in stories, no matter how obscure. I recognized that in your writing.” 

Antilochus contemplates this. He hasn’t ever imagined working for a small startup, but maybe … it is what he’s been looking for.  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“I wanted to show you this before the building closes down.” 

Astyanax leads Antilochus into the Times’ self-constructed Hall of Fame, where all their bestsellers are kept, dating back to the turn of the century. 

Antilochus recognizes some famous ones immediately. The Trial of the Commanders, held by the Trojan government after the Great War. Several prolific military officers from the Imperial Army were executed for war crimes. It broke the Times’ record as their bestselling story of all time. 

“This place reminds me that there are always great stories out there. But I must admit, the ones you see on these walls, aren’t necessarily my favorite. I’ve amassed a personal collection over the years. They’re quite rare, and largely overlooked.” 

Astyanax opens a filing cabinet and takes out a few, opening them to show Antilochus. 

“I don’t think I’ve mentioned this, but my grandpa used to work here,” Antilochus admits. 

“One of the stories he wrote came from a very personal place. It was how he met my grandmother. She was an Achaian refugee and the daughter of a famous war commander. It was difficult between them at first, but they bonded more over their lives in Troy than they did over their pasts.”

“Stories can bring people together that way,” Astyanax observes. 

They look through the folders some more, and Astyanax continues pointing out his favorites. 

Antilochus catches sight of a name and stops short. 

His heart beating faster, he carefully slides the copy out from it’s protective plastic cover. He almost feels lightheaded. An entire summer, trying to bring back what was lost. Trying to bring _this_ back. 

_We often speak about overcoming our differences. We cry out in rage when our friends are attacked. We rally in the streets and fight for the right to live, in this country that has given us so much. That has taken so much._

The opening words. Antilochus brushes his fingers over them, the words that had changed the lives of so many people. 

_Yet, I find myself looking towards the past for answers. I try to think what we did right, amidst all the wrong. I wonder if it can be done again. How can we bridge our separate worlds? I don’t have the answers, but it is my hope this will open the gate._

To the far right is the picture. He has wondered so long which one his grandfather chose, which lasting image at the side of his words. So many powerful moments in history, held still. His mind has skipped over the ones he knows, the perfectly captured flashes of suffering, of anger and destruction.

Only, it is none of them. He goes still when he sees it. His hands start to tremble. 

It is a photograph of three people on the same front porch he has been sitting on his entire life. One is a face he has only seen in later stages of life. The others, he thought he’d never know. It’s as though someone has patched a hole in his heart he wasn’t aware had been there, and he fights back tears at the sensation of this completeness. 

_My parents; Achilles (left), Patroclus (right), and me, Neleus, age 6._

They are a family, a picture of domesticity lying among powerful words. These people, who had never held him, never known his name; even though theirs were close to his heart. 

Theirs were the names that had made his history. 

His grandfather had chosen to share a part of himself with the world, to prove that there was more than the aftermath of war. There was always love; even when what was around them lay in ruins, and the smoke reached the sky. He had chosen to show them in their happiness, made fragile by the troubling times they lived in. A single moment in lost time, immortalized, never to be taken away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading!


End file.
